


The Two Ivans

by Bracketyjack



Series: The Peaceful Vorkosiverse [4]
Category: BUJOLD Lois McMaster - Works, Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bracketyjack/pseuds/Bracketyjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ivan finally pops the question, though not quite as he expects. Or to whom he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Two Ivans

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows 'Forward Momentum' , 'The Christening Tour', and 'Not Place, but People'. It is set on Eta Ceta IV in Spring 2808, where Ivan has been hatching a cunning plan, and is dedicated to my early readers of 'Forward Momentum' on LiveJournal, who felt, rightly, that I there slighted Ivan most unreasonably. Not this time! And a special mention to LJ-user recordclip, who “would totally read anything, but especially one where Ivan announces his engagement …” ‘Nuff said.

**I**   
****

His Excellency Ivan Boulanger, Ambassador from His Imperial Majesty Gregor Vorbarra to the Court of the Celestial Garden, looked carefully at the man standing at rigid attention in front of his desk. He found after a while that both his hands were clutching what little remained of his hair, unclenched them with an effort, and slowly lowered them to rest on gleaming wood. His ambassadorial desk, a gift on presenting his credentials from no less a personage than the haut Pel Navarr (and thereafter exhaustively scanned by ImpSec for bugs, without result), was both beautiful and pleasingly large. He took a deep breath and counted to ten, contemplating the early morning sunlight on the delicate grains and inlay of the wood, then two more while he counted to fifteen.

“I think you had better sit down, Lord Ivan.”

“Thank you, sir, but I prefer to stand.”

“I imagine you do. Sit down anyway, please. Now.”

Colonel Lord Ivan Vorpatril, his Deputy Ambassador and Celestial Garden liaison, looked momently mulish beneath his grimness, but complied. Even sitting, however, he remained visibly rigid, and Boulanger sighed to himself. Lord Ivan had actually been remarkably helpful and efficient over the last two years, relieving him of almost all the regular contact with the Celestial Garden the Alliance required to allow him to get on with his real job of developing inter-imperial trade and finance. And however notorious a Vor playboy, here as much as in Vorbarr Sultana, Lord Ivan had once or twice come out with very timely and well-informed remarks about the haut, and had also proven an invaluable guide to the sheer weirdness of ghem culture (a shock to encounter as a daily reality rather than the background data Boulanger had drawn on as a trade negotiator for Lord Vorsmythe). He had also saved his ambassador from an early gaffe with a perfectly stunning young ghem-lordling who had made a private proposition Boulanger still couldn’t quite believe, and would certainly have fallen for had Lord Ivan not hauled him bodily away to attend to an urgent message that proved wholly fictitious. Explaining why he’d done so had left Boulanger’s head reeling, in which unhappy state he had made promises in gratitude that were now very obviously about to bite him. Sadly he remembered the warnings he had received before leaving Barrayar, from (in rapid succession) Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, Lady Vorpatril, and His Majesty Himself, that he had slowly come to believe exaggerated. _Ivan, you idiot._

“Let me see if I have this correctly, Lord Ivan. You are informing me of your engagement?”

Lord Ivan shied slightly at the word, then grimly collected himself and nodded.

“Which is not to Lady Arvin, who has now proposed to you twice, nor to Lady Benello, who has matched her friend, but to someone else altogether.”

Visibly gritting his teeth, Lord Ivan nodded again.

“A Lady Cahearn. Do you intend to work through the alphabet?”

He received a glare.

“No matter. Lady Cahearn. I suppose congratulations are in order. When is the happy day? Oh, but you told me that too. You are getting married this evening.”

He observed a wince but Lord Ivan was sticking the course. “Yes, sir. I am.”

“And this ceremony is to be held, very privately, at the house of Lady Cahearn’s father, whom I presume to be ghem-Lord Cahearn.”

Another nod.

“About whom you know … not a lot.”

“He is retired from the military, sir, despite his age, for reasons that are clearly a secret of some kind. I haven’t pried because it isn’t wise.” Boulanger shook his head despairingly. What did Lord Ivan think diplomats were _for?_ “And because given the timing I infer, I believe he may have been disgraced after the ghem defeat in the War of the Hegen Hub, so it might be insulting to ask.” That actually made sense, in a Lord-Ivanish way, but added considerably to Boulanger’s worries ; such a connection was potentially _very_ hot water indeed, politically speaking. “And in any case we have his delighted consent.”

“So you said. And so I imagine, if he was thus disgraced.” Boulanger paused, thinking. “You also said Lord Cahearn was presently away from the city. Do I take it, therefore, that he does not expect his consent to be quite so … swiftly exploited?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. Lady Cahearn has made the arrangements with her family.”

“Ah yes. And of course no celebrant is required here, any more than on Barrayar. Merely the declarations. And prior registry of the intended match with a properly deputed official of the Star Crèche, who must issue their license if any children are to result. Tell me, are children on your and Lady Cahearn’s agendas?”

Ivan looked as if he wanted to spit but only nodded again, stiffly. “Eventually, sir. My mother has no other heirs, and whatever you think I am sufficiently Vor to know my duty. Which is why Lady Cahearn is also securing the attendance of such an official. A friend of _her_ mother’s.”

“A friend. Of her mother’s.” There was a long pause. “A haut friend?”

“Obviously, sir. No ghem could be properly deputed in that role.”

“So Lady …dh’Cahearn’s mother is also haut?” Lord Ivan had somehow omiitted the proper prefix in his initial account.

“She is, sir. The haut Eleta. But as you will be aware, the privileges of haut trophy-wives are often very limited, from a haut point-of-view.”

“Limited. Haut.” There was another pause. “But you have the haut Eleta’s consent also?”

“We do, sir.”

“So besides your … unseemly haste, everything is in fact in order.”

“It is, sir.”

“Except that the _reason_ you are doing this in such a … hugger-mugger fashion is that you are unwilling to inform either Lady Arvin or Lady Benello of anything less than a _fait accompli_. Or your mother. Or your cousin. Or your emperor. Or _any_ of the several thousand ghem and Barrayarans you have over the last three years encouraged to bet on your eventual choice in matrimony.” _Several_ million _, quite possibly, if all he heard from Vorbarr Sultana was to be believed._

For the first time the rigid face relaxed enough to smile at him, very tightly. His heart sank. “I rest my case.”

Privately, Boulanger thought Lord Ivan actually had a point, though he also had only himself to blame. Since his original appointment to Eta Ceta as His Majesty’s special liaison with the haut Pel’s office _before_ the jaw-dropping announcement of the Alliance—and Boulanger had thought long and often about that _before_ —Lord Ivan had by all accounts been more or less besieged by ghem-women. It had, apparently, initially been merely an intense curiosity as to what a handsome young outlander aristocrat might be doing swanning in and out of the Celestial Garden and the offices of some _very_ high ranking ghem, but _after_ the announcement (and the days of profound shock that had by all accounts followed it) that ghem-curiosity had become a convulsive assault on a perceived source of power, much as those disgusting spined jellyfish in that strange Tau Cetan sea were said to mob anything that might be food. And even _before_ the invasion broadcast had so stupendously shown the Alliance to be a genuine, working proposition and not merely a paper peace, Lord Ivan had received his first proposals of marriage from Ladies Arvin and Benello, whom he had apparently met during his still highly classified visit to Eta Ceta back in ’95 (about which all manner of rumours still abounded among the ghem, though no haut ever said anything of the sort). _After_ being seen by the entire Nexus aboard Emperor Gregor’s battle-yacht (named, Boulanger recalled with an inward shudder, for Lord Ivan’s utterly formidable mother) he had been … swamped. So much was clear, and might win anyone’s sympathy—but his chosen tactic had then been to use Ladies Arvin and Benello as (very effective) shields while declining _any_ answer to _their_ proposals. While also from time to time manipulating the odds in the running embassy sweepstake for unknown but undoubtedly nefarious purposes of his own. Boulanger’s sympathy had declined quite sharply as he watched all this play out, but he could see that no polite or easy way now remained for Lord Ivan to Do the Right Thing. _And if the idiot really has fallen for this Lady dh’Cahearn …_

“Mmm. I do see that it would be a _very_ awkward interview. Or two.”

“Exactly, sir.” The relief was palpable.

“Almost as awkward as this one.” Lord Ivan glared at him. There was a further silence. “In any case, you have decided so to act. And yet you feel it necessary to inform me ahead of time.”

“I thought you might notice my absence, sir. Eventually.”

“No doubt. When Count and Countess Vorbretten arrive next week, perhaps, expecting you to chaperone their meeting with their ghem-cousins.” _That_ went home, but Lord Ivan’s wince could not undo his mulishness. and his voice was as unyielding as it was stiff.

“I have left Count Vorbretten a letter, sir, and briefed Major Khourakis fully. Lord Thaliar has also been briefed personally by General Coram, and will in any case be charmed silly by the Countess, so it’ll all be alright, I expect.”

Boulanger glared in turn, noting that Lord Ivan had his fingers crossed. “How good to know, Lord Ivan. And yet despite your expectations of universal wellbeing you also see fit to demand my name’s Oath that I will tell no-one in the Nexus about _your_ plans for happiness before you send a general message and immediately depart on honeymoon, incommunicado, for … where was it?”

“Xi Ceta.”

“Ah yes. Where Lady dh’Cahearn’s family has ‘a place’ they have offered you.”

“Yes.”

“A ‘place’ which is not on the comnet.”

“I understand it is deliberately remote, sir. A hunting-lodge.”

 _Remote? Try ‘well-hidden’, Lord Ivan, you idiot._ “And I should agree to this ludicrous insanity, despite my oath to His Majesty, because … ?

“You _owe_ me, sir. And I’m calling it in.”

Very unhappily Boulanger steepled his fingers and contemplated the result. “I do, yes. Because you saved me from what would have been a severe private embarrassment. As opposed to a severe public embarrassment, which is what will happen if I agree to be silent. Or perhaps worse. I seriously doubt that His Majesty will understand such underhandedness and dereliction of duty.”

There was a mutter of some kind.

“I didn’t catch that, Lord Ivan.”

The look he received might have drawn blood.

“I said, sir, that _Gregor_ _is not the problem_. And in any case you are far too valuable to him here for any actions of mine to … endanger your position.”

“Ah. How flattering.” Boulanger pondered for a moment that bare _Gregor_ , but whatever the childhood intimacy and blood-relation between his deputy and his Emperor he knew that riding herd on Lord Ivan was most certainly one part of his job. “And yet I am strangely unmoved by your assurances.”

“You _owe_ me.”

“So you said. And so I do. But _this?_ ”

It was Lord Ivan’s turn to be unmoved. “It’s not as if I’m asking _you_ to tell Gregor.” He shuddered in his chair, looking faintly sick. “Or my mother.”

“Indeed. You propose to do that yourself. By prerecorded vid.” Lady Vorpatril was going to be beside herself when that little gem popped onto her comconsole. Not to mention those little ghem Lord Ivan eventually proposed to get around to. Boulanger shuddered all over again himself, and a possible escape-route suggested itself. “Tell me, do you really believe that the interviews with Ladies Arvin and Benello you so dearly seek to avoid would be less difficult than the interview with your mother that you and … your ghem-bride will eventually have to undertake?”

To his dismay Lord Ivan smiled again.

“Oh yes. Infinitely. My honoured mother may single-handedly define the _geezer_ in _geezer-class Vor_ but she will already have what she wants. And she has never in her life, even as an infant-in-arms, made the slightest scene in public.” _Except giving birth to you in a warehouse during the Pretender’s War, if that story is to be believed._ “Whereas Jennea Arvin and Lactai Benello believe in … more direct action. And can, believe me, screech the ceiling down.”

That also made sense, and not only Lord-Ivanishly. _Damn._ Boulanger could feel the box closing around him and wondered if he really could lose his job over this. It would be a bitter disappointment, and a waste, for he knew he was doing good work—but His Majesty might not feel He had any choice, especially if the Vorkosigans as well as the Vorpatrils took real offence. And who knew how far the ripples of _ghem_ -offence might spread? Or _haut_. It was a disaster, ridiculous but appalling, and like a man sliding on ice head-first towards a plascrete wall he could do nothing to stop the inevitable smash. Because he _had_ promised, dammit, though he would certainly never do anything so ridiculously open-ended again. _Which was also a thought._

“Hmmm. Well, that is, I suppose, your call. And you are correct that _I owe you_ , however immoral and idiotic as well as cowardly the use you propose to make of the fact.” Lord Ivan’s glare became quite impressively stony. “But I simply cannot make an unbounded commitment to be silent, whatever your reasons or demands.”

Fine white teeth were audibly unclenched. “Not unbounded, sir. One day. Twenty-six hours. Or twenty-five, here.”

Boulanger gritted his own teeth. “Very well. But you must also specify _exactly_ whom I cannot tell, all others being permitted. And agree that if _anyone_ with the proper authority to do so asks me what is happening, or where you are, or even what time of day it is, all bets and oaths are off. I will _not_ lie for you. Nor even prevaricate.”

Lord Ivan’s eyes narrowed. “You want a list.”

“Yes.”

“Why? No-one on Eta Ceta IV and no Barrayarans covers it.”

“Because apart from anything else, Lord Ivan, this being Saturday, I intend as always to talk by frame to my son at his boarding-school. I do not propose to tell Josef of your jaunts and jollities, nor of my own impending disgrace, but it is bad enough that I cannot be there for him, and that he was obliged by ImpSec to change schools when I left, so I cannot and will not promise you that I am not going to be calling Barrayar today.”

Ivan smiled tightly again and reached into his inner pocket. “I thought you’d say that, sir, so I have already made a list.”

He passed over a folded flimsy and sat back. _Damn._ Gingerly and with renewed dismay at how well Lord Ivan seemed to know him Boulanger spread it on his desk and examined it. At the top, underlined, was the single name “ Captain Miles Vorkosigan”, followed parenthetically by “(and Ekaterin, Mark, Kareen, Uncle Aral, Aunt Cordelia)”. _Captain?_ Then, similarly laid out, came “ Mother (and Simon, Falco, and all Vorpatrils whatever)”. Boulanger grimly considered the missing ‘Chief’, ‘Illyan’, and ‘Count’. An equally bare “Gregor and Laisa” were in third place, followed by “(and anyone who is or has ever been a member of ImpSec)”. Then the list became rather more haphazard and crowded. “All Koudelkas. Anyone who has married a Koudelka, and all their relations. Any serving officer in any uniformed service. Any sworn Armsman of any Count. Any Count. Anyone married to or descended from a Count. Any Lord Auditor. Anyone married to or descended from a Lord Auditor. Any Residence or District official. Anyone in Vorkosigan, Vorbarra, Vorpatril, or Toscane employment. Jack Chandler. The Lord Guardian of the Speaker’s Circle and his deputies. Anyone ever employed at Vorhartung Castle.” A double line scored the flimsy, below which a second list began. “Haut Pel. H.I.M. t.h. Fletchir Giaja. H.I.M. t.h. Rian Degtiar. Haut Palma. Governor t.h. Raniton Degtiar.” It was interesting—though not remotely reassuring—that Cetagandans retained honorifics Barrayarans were denied. “Haut anyone connected with any of them. Any Ba. General Benin. General Coram. Lady Arvin. Lady Arvin senior. Lord Arvin. Admiral Arvin. Lady Benello. Lady Benello senior. Lord Benello. Any other Benins, Corams, Arvins, and Benellos there are, or may be. General Kariam. Any other ghem-general. Anyone working in the Celestial Garden. Anyone who has ever worked at the Celestial Garden. Anyone called Naru, Kety, Yenaro, or Lhosh. Anyone related to anyone of those names. Anyone I’ve forgotten.”

Boulanger’s fingers tapped on his desk while he thought. The Barrayaran listing, however informal, seemed pretty comprehensive, the Cetagandan one less so but more than enough to rule out any contact he could think of who might do the slightest good. And why Lord Ivan even thought it was _possible_ the Barrayaran ambassador might talk to the haut Emperor (let alone Empress) or one of those _intensely_ disturbing Ba servitors about something like this was a puzzle, reminding him uncomfortably of the very discreet visits to the Celestial Garden Lord Ivan had been making over the last eighteen months—about which, after receiving a highly confidential ambassadorial despatch, His Majesty (suppressing a smile) had personally told Boulanger not to worry. But that last entry on the list was unconscionable.

“Lord Ivan, I cannot agree not to talk to ‘anyone you have forgotten’.”

The list was plucked from his desk and carefully scrutinised for some minutes. Then Lord Ivan produced a stylus, struck through his last entry, and returned the list to where Boulanger could see it.

“Fair enough, sir. But everyone else stays. Now, your Word?”

 

* * * * *

 

After the door had closed behind a triumphant (if still generally grim) Lord Ivan, Boulanger spent a good hour sitting quite still at his gleaming desk, watching sunlight track slowly across its surface and trying to think of anyone with whom he might try to communicate about this bombshell before it went off. At least three times he almost rose to call His Majesty directly, foreswear himself, avert disaster, and resign, but on each occasion remembered that, as he had once heard Lord Auditor Vorkosigan strikingly remark, honour mattered rather more than reputation, and was besides a great deal harder to repair. Eventually he decided he had little choice but to trust to Lord Ivan’s notorious luck and console himself with the thought of the Vor lord having to deal in future with both ghem and haut relatives as well as Captain Illyan and his mother. Who would be _furious_.

Eventually the thought also occurred to him that his son had risen early today, in anticipation of a school-tournament that should by now be complete (and he had to hand it to the school—exclusive Vorbarr Sultana institution or no, it was fiercely up with the times). _Boo!_ was the latest fighting-game to obsess Barrayaran youth (and many of their elders), featuring the sensational new bubble- and wormhole-technologies rather accurately ; surprise was all, and you actually _lost_ points, heavily, for killing or physically injuring rather than bloodlessly capturing your opponents, while you could earn true victory, and its very generous prizes, only if your actions (preferably in unexpected co-operation with an erstwhile opponent) saved everyone and were sufficiently aesthetic as well as successful. It seemed to be the massive menus of music, colour, dance-styles, couture, coiffure, footwear, and accessories that had fascinated everyone, along with the highly improbable range of combatants available, and the game was due to be launched quite soon on Eta Ceta, where there was already a feverish buzz of anticipation. The game was manufactured by a division of the explosively growing MPVK Enterprises—which extremely interesting conglomerate had also become _very_ heavily involved with ghem-genetic work on troublesome Barrayaran flora and fauna ; especially since its owner’s utterly discombobulating admission a year ago (with his wife, brother, and sister-in-law, at that extraordinary ballet) to the Grand Warrant of the Inner Garden. Quite what _that_ had been about neither Boulanger nor any of the ghem and haut he had spoken to had the least idea, and asking about it tended—even now the quaddie company had finally ended their sixteen-planet Cetagandan tour and headed for Sergyar—to induce either baffled silence or baffled complaint. It was nevertheless very clear to him that the Vorkosigan brothers operated far more closely in tandem than anyone had ever supposed possible when Lord Mark so astoundingly materialised in Vorbarr Sultana back in ’01. The game (and its rather brilliant vid advertisements by the Chance Brothers) had amused and impressed him as much as his fifteen-year-old son’s enthusiasm for it warmed him, and he rose to cross to his frameconsole determined to be a cheerful Da in conversation. Josef deserved no less, and Boulanger deeply regretted that duty had now taken him from the lad almost as surely as the aircar crash all those years ago had deprived them both of his mother. If it hadn’t been for frames he didn’t know what he would have done when he received His Majesty’s utterly unexpected invitation to represent Him on Eta Ceta. _Thank you, Dr Chandler, from the bottom of my heart._

Josef was indeed back and freshly showered, wrapped in the shirr-silk haut dressing-gown Boulanger had sent him last Winterfair and obviously playing what looked like a rather advanced round of _Boo!_ involving Vor cavalry, Marilacan guerrillas, face-painted ghem-warriors (clan design chosen by the player), Athosian missionaries, improbably large quaddies with peculiar instruments who could, he remembered, use percussive music to paralyse their opponents, a peacenik sect of Betan hermaphrodites who favoured slightly leering seduction, and one of the strange, powerfully interfering cats (most of them a strange grey-and-tabby mix) that could show up at any time to tip events into new courses. The boy grinned as he saw his Da, finger still resting on the ‘accept’ button of his frame.

“Hi, Da.”

“Hi, Jo. How did you do?”

 Jo grimaced. “Equal fourth. A partial victory. But it was a good tournament—some great moves and alliances.” He peered at his frame and Boulanger’s determined control must not have been good enough for Jo looked his concern. “Are you OK, Da? You look … worried? Work stuff?”

Honesty with his son (so far as security allowed) had always been Boulanger’s firm policy, and he made an instant decision that he hadn’t won this poor concession from Lord Ivan for nothing, whatever his good intentions might have been.

“Yes and no, Jo. I might be home sooner than you expect. Lord Vorpatril has just informed me that he is getting married.” Jo’s mouth made a big O. “This evening. And he used an IOU he held on me to make me swear not to tell anyone who could stop him. It’s going to be a disaster.”

“Wow. Lady Arvin or Lady Benello?”

“Neither. A wholly unknown Lady Cahearn.”

“ _What?_ The bookies will be livid.”

“You’re telling me. And I should say dh’Cahearn : she’s a ghaut.”

Jo stared. “He’s got the license and everything?”

“So he says. Some haut friend of his bride’s haut Ma. He also thinks the ‘retired’ officer ghem-Da was disgraced after the Hegen Hub.”

“Yib!” Jo’s face was sober beneath his surprise. “That is _not_ good. Or … well. It _might_ not be good. If it could be spun properly …”

That was actually a very good point, and Boulanger’s pride in his son was sharp. But … “This evening.”

“Why the heck is he doing it like that?”

“To avoid interviews with Ladies Arvin and Benello before being able to present them with a _fait accompli_.”

“I thought he liked them. Everybody did.”

“Me too. And I don’t know that he doesn’t, Jo. In fact I rather suspect that whoever this Lady dh’Cahearn is, she represents for Lord Ivan a way of _not_ having to decide.”

“But that’s idiotic! Give up both women you love because you can’t pick one? And when you could have both?”

“It’s Lord Ivan.”

“Yeah. I suppose.” Jo frowned. “Da, you said he made you swear not to tell anyone who could do anything, but you can’t have sworn to _that_.”

“No. I told him I couldn’t do anything so daft. But he had made a list.”

“May I see it?”

“Sure.”

Boulanger went back to his desk where Lord Ivan’s list still lay in lonely, reproving splendour. He considered reading it out but then just held it so Jo could see, peering through his frame.

“ _Captain_ Vorkosigan?”

“I believe it was the Lord Auditor’s retiring ImpSec rank, but otherwise don’t ask _me_. Some kind of cousinly thing, I suppose.”

“Huh.” Jo’s eyes worked carefully down the list, then returned to the Barrayaran contingent. After a moment his eyes brightened and he smiled. “You know, Da, I just might be able to help you on this one. _I_ haven’t sworn anything to anybody. And you’ve still got, what? seven or eight hours daylight there. Can you hang on a minute while I make a parallel call?”

Boulanger was completely nonplussed. What Jo could be thinking of or whom he might be intending to call he couldn’t imagine.

“Sure, Jo.”

It was one of the peculiarities of frame-calling that when multiple calls were held on a single frame visuals were easily blanked but fragments of sound tended to come through, and over the next few minutes Boulanger heard snatches of what was obviously a quick-fire summary of Lord Ivan’s mad doings, Jo’s voice low and urgent. He didn’t hear any replies, though. How quickly his son had grasped the possible ramifications of a clandestine Vorpatril–ghaut marriage was a source of renewed pride, but his good feeling was overbalanced by contemplating the consequences in question. Then his son’s face popped back into view.

“Da, I’m going to transfer you to someone. _Don’t_ ask who, but I swear he’s not on your list. Tell him everything. And I guess you’ll need to keep your frame open after, so I’ll sign off. Call me later, if you can. Love you.”

Before a startled Boulanger could do or say anything Jo vanished to be replaced by another lad of his age, dressed in unassuming but beautifully tailored slacks and shirt. Who he was Boulanger had not the faintest idea. His voice was a pleasant light baritone with what sounded weirdly to Boulanger’s well-tuned ear like haut rhetorical nuances. High haut at that.

“Good morning, your Excellency. I understand you have a problem with Lord Vorpatril, and a list. May I please see the list?”

Silently Boulanger held it up as before.

“Thank you, sir.” The boy’s eyes scanned the page carefully, twice. Boulanger had the impression that he suppressed a grin. “That’s … comprehensive. But as Jo said, _I_ am not it. So do please tell me what has happened.”

Boulanger did, leaving out only the hold Lord Ivan had on him. The boy listened in silence, then drummed his fingers once on his thigh.

“Forgive me, sir, but _how_ did Lord Vorpatril manage to make you swear this oath of silence?”

Boulanger flushed, and struggled to formulate a version that might leave him some dignity with this formidable young man, whoever he was. Suddenly the boy grinned.

“I believe I see.” The grin faded. “Can you give _me_ your Name’s Word, sir, that the … lever involved was, ah, a _private_ matter? One that had and has no bearing whatever on the security of either Imperium?”

Boulanger stared, feeling a rising appreciation. Someone had taught this young man a great deal of hard-headed sense. “I believe I can, and I do, on my name as Boulanger.” He paused, then forced himself on. “But plainly, sir, I am no Vor, and in code-law have little honour to swear by.” The honorific slid easily from his mouth and after a second’s mental doubletake he felt a wash of returning self-respect ; calling this boy ‘lad’ or some such dismissive tag would be no way of showing the admiration he was beginning to feel. And the boy smiled dazzlingly at him.

“My Da says possession of that syllable is much overrated, and your Word, sir, is good enough for me.” Fingers drummed again. “But we _do_ have a problem, if all this is true. Forgive me again, sir, but are you certain that Lord Vorpatril was ... being entirely serious? He has been known to, um, perpetrate _jokes_. And I would not care to make the calls I shall have to if it _is_ true only to discover that it _isn’t_.” He paused, thoughtfully. “Neither would Lord Vorpatril, I imagine.”

Boulanger still couldn’t imagine to whom those calls might go, but the boy plainly had access to _someone_ , and as he thought it through he found he agreed wholly with the reasoning. Lord Ivan _did_ have that reputation, though it had been notably in abeyance on Eta Ceta, saving his prolonged and teasing matrimonial indecision. _Which just went west._ And anyone who might actually be in a position to act on information received would certainly not care in the least to do so only to discover an infantile Vorish jape. He thought back to Lord Ivan’s manner and shook his head firmly.

“I do not believe it was any kind of a jest, sir. When Lord Ivan was speaking of engagement and matrimony he was grimly determined yet juddering. Rather white, also.” He reflected for a second. “And if it _is_ a hoax, I shall be demanding his immediate recall to Vorbarr Sultana in the blackest disgrace, or tendering my own resignation as ambassador. Continuing to serve with him after being so gulled in a matter of my name’s Word would not be tenable.”

The boy nodded. “Fair enough, sir. Lord Vorpatril is never malicious.” He frowned in a shockingly adult manner. “And Uncle Ivan is nothing like idiotic enough to get himself sent back to the Residence in real disgrace, whatever Da says.”

 _Uncle—?_

“Now, I shall be making two parallel calls. I am sorry, but you will see and hear nothing of the recipients, nor of me, but they will be able both to see and to hear you, and when both are connected I shall ask you to repeat your story once more, and to read out the list. They … _are_ on it, but you will not be talking to them. You will be talking to me.” He grimaced slightly, then shrugged. “A touch of hairsplitting, I know, but better that than the other. And if it helps I can say that knowing what _I_ already know I am obliged to make the calls anyway, which will certainly result in calls to you sooner rather than later. Which you will, believe me, be _very_ obliged to take.”

Boulanger seemed to have spent the entire morning staring. His mind whirred, balked, and went on whirring anyway. “I see. I think. Though I am also completely confused about almost everything. Perhaps I should say that I made it a condition of my name’s Oath that if I were asked by anyone with the proper authority what Lord Ivan was doing I should be free to reply as my duty demands. And … forgive _me_ , but you do realise that as you or the other callers speak there may be some sound-spill?”

The boy grinned. “Not on my frame, sir. Uncle Jack made sure of that.”

 _Uncle—?_  

“As to the other, very right of you, as Gran’da would say, and it may come to that. But if this works out you will already have done your duty. We’ll see. Excuse me.”

Boulanger’s frame blanked, showing that faint shimmer that indicated the very highest grades of internal security. An interminable time passed while he thought very carefully about a number of things, including uncles and gran’das, though the chrono-display on the frame suggested it was only about fifteen minutes before light flared and the boy was back, his posture somehow stiffer and more focused, though his voice was easy. Absurdly, there was now an oddly familiar-looking grey-and-tabby cat perched in front of his frame, peering at Boulanger with evident interest.

“Your Excellency, please begin.”

Boulanger did, and this time added a frank though decorously worded admission of how Lord Ivan had come to hold his IOU, naming the ghem-lordling but (with fingers crossed) failing to specify the precise offer he had made. As he spoke he saw the boy’s gaze was not on him at all but flickering right and left, watching his unseen, silent listeners. It occurred to Boulanger that he could not configure his own frame in quite this way. When he came to the end of the list he held it up, quirking an eyebrow at the boy, who smiled slightly as he nodded. There was a long silence until the boy nodded respectfully twice, neither time at him.

“Uncles?”

 _Uncles—?_

But there was no time to puzzle it out, because the boy was nodding again, and suppressing a smile that might have been purely gleeful if it had been allowed to be.

“You bet. May I come? … Thank you. Who’ll call His Excellency? … Oh, OK.”

Then suddenly the boy flushed a little. Boulanger’s pulse raced.

“Thank you, Uncle … and Uncle.” He smiled a little shyly, suddenly looking younger. “That means a lot to me. Will you tell”—his eyes flicked to Boulanger and away again—“your son? While I tell Da? … OK.” Drawing himself up he tipped a crisp salute and then made a perfect Cetagandan bow in one of the new modes, and very stylishly. No, _two_ of the new modes, extraordinarily combined. With an odd floating sensation Boulanger recognised them as Vor lord to Celestial authority, and adopted friend to parental guide. Coming out of the bow the boy fluently punched at a complex keypad and looked up at Boulanger.

“Someone will call you shortly, your Excellency. Please relax. _Quite_ what the outcome will be I am uncertain, but I assure you no disaster will now be permitted to befall the … strong hopes of the Alliance, at its _highest_ levels, that the marriage of Lord Vorpatril to Lady Arvin, or to Lady Benello, or”—he grinned, charmingly, with pure wickedness—“preferably both, will”—and his voice deepened into the sonorous reassurance of good propaganda—“set a most positive trend well-received on both home planets, and throughout the imperia.” There was another grin as his voice reverted to its pleasant baritone. “Nor should you fear for Lady dh’Cahearn. But I’m afraid I must go, as I have been assigned my own duties.” The cat jumped down, vanishing. “Stand by your frame, your Excellency. And buckle up tight!”

His image vanished. In the ensuing silence, very carefully rising, crossing to his favourite thinking-chair now touched with sunlight, sitting, extending his legs to cross them at the ankle, leaning back, and letting out his breath with an explosive _Oooof!_ , Boulanger let his thoughts tumble and jump. The subjects included, in no particular order, the capacities of children, and of frames, and of emperors ; Vorpatrils ; the nature of Vor training and education ; just how much _nobody_ understood about Lord Auditor Vorkosigan’s role in somehow creating the Alliance ; the astonishing grasp of aesthetics exhibited on numerous occasions by his formidable wife ; the _very_ strange stories about both of them and their influence with the Celestial Garden ; Vorpatrils ; the genetic thinking of the ghem, profoundly genetic thinking of the haut, especially the high haut, and utterly genetic thinking of the Star Crèche, in so far as he had any real understanding of that remote guardianship of all that was haut ; the most remarkable fact, very differently understood by the high Vor, Vorgeoisie, and non-Vor, that His Imperial— _oh yes, imperial to his finger-tips_ —Majesty had married as utterly non-Vor a bride as he could find in His entire imperium ; Vorpatrils ; the hair-raising essay by Madame Professora Vorthys called with misleading mildness _The Vorkosigan Report_ ; and among them all a certain trepidation about in exactly whose hearing he had just implicitly confessed to certain desires that might well be thought unbecoming in an ambassador. The identity of the boy no longer troubled him, for there could be only one answer—though he remained profoundly astonished at more implications than he could begin to count.

After a while the incoming light on his frame began to blink, and he hauled himself upright, shook out the creases, and went to accept the call. To his very mild surprise ghem-General Benin of the Imperial Guard looked pleasantly out at him, face-paint gleaming. To his infinitely greater surprise the haut Pel was visible behind the security chief, quite unembubbled and poorly stifling a laugh he did _not_ want to hear. Benin smiled gently.

“Your Excellency. I am given to understand there is something—indeed, several somethings—that you cannot in all honour tell me. In consequence, a ’car will collect you during the late afternoon or early evening. I’m sorry not to be able to be more precise, but you have in any case ample time to dress in … appropriate finery. There will, I believe, be sufficient ceremony, of some kind, to warrant the effort. And perhaps you will be kind enough now to excuse me? I seem to have a busier day ahead than I had quite anticipated when I rose this morning. As I imagine you have already found.”

Boulanger smiled beatifically at the single most powerful and well-connected ghem there was on Eta Ceta IV. Or pretty much anywhere, come to that. Others ruled clans, guilds, conglomerates, and in the satrapies even some frontier provinces, but for all he was no lord himself— _yet_ —General Benin alone among ghem could always speak in his Imperial Master’s Voice. He was also a _friend_ of Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan _and_ of Boulanger’s own Imperial Master, by all accounts—peculiar and otherwise contradictory as they might be.

“You are a gentleman, sir, and a scholar of rare understanding. Be my guest, please, with my humble gratitude.”

Benin suddenly grinned, charmingly, shifting the zebra-stripes and red highlights of his Imperial Array. The haut Pel … hooted. Or perhaps the hoot Pel hauted. And Boulanger’s frame winked into empty stillness. _Alright! And let’s hear it for Jo. I owe him large—and ImpSec for insisting on that school._ Leaning back in his chair he found, for the first time in—he glanced at the chrono—almost three hours, that he was once again looking forward to his Saturday evening, and to what he rather thought was going to be a highest-level round of _Boo!_ played out right here in the heart of Cetaganda.

 

 

 **II**

 

Colonel Lord Ivan Vorpatril crouched carefully in the corner of his own back-garden, making sure his fine black cloak continued to shroud his best dress red-and-blues as he eased an optical relay under the wall-door to check that the ghem-guard his embassy rank warranted was still elsewhere. Quite how Samura had been able to arrange the diversionary call he wasn’t at all sure, and had no wish to ask. Her father must (as much as her mother) still have some highly placed friends, whatever his state of official disgrace, and it had been clear to Ivan from the first and only time he had met Lord Cahearn and the haut Lady d’Cahearn that while neither thought much of Barrayarans in any guise they saw very clearly indeed that this particular Vor lord represented a better chance of a redignifying social coup than they had ever expected to get. Political rehabilitation too, perhaps, but they knew that was a purely Celestial matter way beyond any outlander’s sphere. In any case, whatever they thought they had been scrupulously polite and unconditionally welcoming. _Ha._ No dismissive _Ivan, you idiot_ s from _that_ source.

He felt bad about abandoning poor René and Tatya Vorbretten, but it had to be. And he felt extremely bad about Jennea and Lactai, who had really been very kind and helpful. He was also melancholically aware that he would fiercely miss their energetic and inventive bedroom-company, not to mention the splendidly bland faces they could present to snide enquirers about that ridiculous claim of Vor sexual honour he had made up the first, soul-destroying time he had kept an assignation with them both, all those years ago. When the pair of them had ambushed him in an outer precinct of the Celestial Garden, not long after his second arrival on Eta Ceta on secondment to haut Pel, his heart had rocketed into his boots—but for once honesty had proven the best policy, and he had been inspired by the momentary privacy of a bower scooped from the oddly pink hedge that so amused Pel to make a formal apology for having once so misled them, and for his then unconfessable state of poisoned haplessness. Hoping to undercut them at once with stiff dignity (however belated) and manly frankness he had been in rapid turn startled, angry, and dismayed when both had erupted into peals of laughter, but after they had apologised themselves for becoming pawns in someone else’s trick, and showered him with praises for the strength of his Vor hands and the quickness of his Barrayaran tongue—and thinking—he had begun to feel quite mellow about it all. Jennea had also implied that in the aftermath of whatever it was that had been going on—and she had looked an enquiry but accepted his fractional shake of the head without demur—Dag Benin had Taken Steps, and both girls had been somehow carpeted, though their essential innocence had been accepted.

After that one thing had led to another, rather often, and he knew that his friendship with the girls had been much the best thing about his now quite extended stint here on Eta Ceta. They were seriously all right, good pals as well as wonderful lovers, and infinitely less stuffy than the Vor girls he’d run with in Vorbarr Sultana during his years at Ops Command. But both of them also had _geezer-class in waiting_ stamped all over them, a female wilfullness he recognised without thinking, and a strong dislike of not getting what they wanted, irrespective of what he might think. Their competitive proposals, flagrantly made in public and in the most dramatic fashions each could devise—which was saying something—were just about the only desires he _had_ been able to baffle. Either would, he understood in his bones, be _extremely_ managerial as a wife, and though haut Gars— _heh_ —had once (during their very extended and most private conversations about how Gregor’s identity as Count Vorbarra was understood by Vor and common Barrayarans) somewhat impatiently remarked to him that the managerial capacity of one wife was best offset by that of another, he had never seriously considered accepting _both_ girls’ proposals. It was a nice lifetime bedroom-fantasy, but Ivan was very clear about the reality that would follow. One mother was more than enough.

And then there was Samura, younger than either Jennea or Lactai, infinitely more timid, and so sweetly inexperienced—though he had done a good deal to rectify that. His heart had gone out to her the first time he saw her, almost a year ago now, looking nervous and lost in that same outer precinct of the Garden, shying from his bare-faced unghem strangeness, and whispering a request for directions to one of the minor bureaucratic offices. Gallantly escorting her there and exerting himself to be charming and reassuring, a soldier-diplomat determined to win new friends for Barrayar, he had been rewarded with shy smiles and wondering glances from cornflower-blue eyes otherwise as demurely veiled as if the ground at her feet were a magnet. He had not had time to linger—haur Gars didn’t care to be kept waiting—and had regretfully supposed he would never see her again ; but ten days later there she had been, coming out of the same minor office, and this time he had managed to extract a name and a comsonsole code. After which one thing had once again led to another, more intensely than often, and in a blinding moment two months back he had abruptly seen that she was an answer to his prayers.

The fallout, he knew, would _not_ be good, but he had meant what he said to Boulanger about his mother, who was in any case responsible for his whole ridiculous matrimonial mess, and understood his needs and desires as little as she had Gregor’s when throwing endless debutante Vor-girls at him as candidates for the Imperial Hand. Even Miles had been exasperated by how slow she had been to realise that Gregor would never marry a Vor, and she still didn’t seem to realise _he_ felt much the same way, even though she knew the only proposals he’d ever made himself were to Delia and Martya Koudelka. It was unfortunate they’d both been made on the same day, and refused out of hand in rapid succession, but he’d been panicking as the non-Vor he’d always had his eyes on began disappearing _en masse_ towards wedding-circles. And _all_ the Koudelka girls were married now that Martya had finally tied the knot with Enrique Borgos—two non-Vor marrying, just like Delia and Duv, which he thought a terrible waste.

Moreover, his mother really did know how to make the best of _faits accomplis_ with which she was presented, having had a fair amount of practice for which she had only herself to blame ; and while he did not suppose either Gregor or haut Gars would be best pleased he did think both would on similar grounds keep out of it. Besides, he was very nearly 35, and almost everyone he knew was now married—not only Miles, the Nexus-rearranging rat, and all the Koudelkas, but weird Mark, and  weirder Enrique, _and_ Gregor. Even his mother and Simon were apparently at last considering whether they should wed. _Gah._ His sense of dismay as his old girlfriends also married in droves had become more intense with each new Vorbarr Sultana bulletin from his mother, and he found with only mild surprise that he no longer cared to be odd man out, bottom of his class, or _poor Ivan_ —the last even worse than his usual, casually insulting and assonant soubriquet. This Time it was _his_ Time, and high time too : Lord Vorpatril would for once crack the whip and seize the day.

The tiny scope he had liberated from the embassy’s ImpSec office showed the service-lane was still clear, and he slipped out, keeping elegantly to shadows until he could turn into the street and hasten south, cloak flaring around him. The auto-aircab was exactly where it had been ordered to be, already programmed for the grounds of Lord Cahearn’s quite roomy though far from palatial townhouse. As the ’cab whispered through the last of the evening light, overflying Satrapies Park and the many ghem families taking constitutionals in the dusk, geneered pet-animals bounding around them, his heart was beating crisply but he also felt, at long last, the growing calm of commitment. He actually _wanted_ to do this, and the Nexus had no bribe or threat that would make him jilt Samura.

His first inkling that all might not be entirely as he supposed came after he had sent the ’cab on its way and used the code Samura had given him to slip through the wall-door into her father’s garden. Once, when both her parents were off-planet, they had played out a scene he vaguely recalled from his Terran lit. class at school, and her delighted giggles and welcoming arms as he climbed to the second-floor balcony of her bedroom had made him feel like a warrior receiving admiring and very personal tribute. _Hail! The great Vorpatril comes!_ He swirled his cloak cheerfully. The overgrown holm-oak half-way to the house had dense enough foliage to provide good shelter, and he was expecting Samura to be waiting for him there, as they had agreed. But to his appalled shock the voice that greeted him from the darkness under the low boughs was not Samura’s.

“Hello, Ivan.”

He stared, jaw dropping, though neither as fast nor as far as his heart.

“Hello, Ivan.”

His head whipped round. Disaster was complete. Shame surged. But dammit, he was a Vor, and a Vorpatril, and he struggled to keep his voice calm and conversational.

“Good evening, Jennea, Lactai. I wasn’t expecting either of you to be here.”

“So we gather.” Jennea was maintaining her own cool, thank the gods, though he knew from the look in her eyes that she was _not_ an altogether happy woman. “A rather low plan, don’t you agree? Did we not deserve your honesty?”

“Or your kindness, at least? You would make us laughing-stocks, you know, following this course.”

Vorpatrilhood draining from him like blood— _or milk_ —Ivan slumped onto the little bench that circled the tree, not even bothering to arrange his cloak in the delightfully piratical manner it encouraged.

“You did. I’m sorry. But I thought … I persuaded myself it would be better this way. For you both.”

“For you, you mean.”

Their voices sounded in unison. He shuddered. “Yes. For me. I couldn’t face haut Pel, or my mother, either.”

Glances were exchanged before Jennea replied. “ _That_ we can understand. But we really will have to get the genome edited a bit, you know. This sort of funk is … simply not on.”

“What?” His voice sounded feeble even to his own ears, and Lactai waved a hand impatiently.

“That’s a given, Jennea.” _What?_ “But you’re not going to stand on pride any more than I am although he’s been a cozening, spineless jellyfish. He’s 70% hero, 10% poltroon, 5% idiot, and the rest amazing good luck which is probably the shared Vorkosigan genes. We knew all that, as well as all his connections, _and_ that he’s pretty good in bed. But Samura dh’Cahearn is a _very_ different proposition and she’s played a damn skilled hand. Are we really willing to make three into four?” _What?What?What?Wh—_

“Yes. And we’ll _all_ make it work. Or else.”

There was a long pause full of fierce female eye-contact broken by the slight rustle of a dress.

“Samura?”

Whether Jennea or Lactai had spoken he wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter worth a damn because Samura was gliding forward out of the shadows, apologetic and doe-eyed, with an adorably urchin smile on her lovely face. But disaster was not to be averted now.

“I am _so_ sorry, Ivan. Things … _happened_. And _people_ I simply couldn’t say ‘no’ to.” His heart and mind sank anew as her manner became unprecedentedly brisk and confident. “Ladies, I know full well I am junior, and have no quarrel with it. The alphabet provides a convenient hierarchy. But you are aware of _my_ connections, and you know I will not accept less than my due.” She blushed prettily. “Practically speaking, I would suggest we split Ivan’s old lie. Three times, three women ; or one apiece. As an ideal, of course, flexible to circumstance. And I object neither to syn- nor diachronicity. Full protocol in public, of course, but in private and when it counts everything else works the same way : all for one and one for all. We will be a new model for both ghem and Vor, and we will have to make up our own rules wherever we can. Agreed?”

Ivan’s brain had given up its iterations of _what?_ and he listened in appalled silence.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

He was cooked ; to a turn. But still, apparently, not cooked enough, for as Jennea’s and Lactai’s ringing affirmatives sounded under the tree a dapper figure wearing the Imperial Array came out of the garden-verandah whose roof had been such a useful route to Samura’s window that night, and strolled towards them. _Oh … fuck. Fuckfuckfuck, in fact._ But suddenly he felt more cheerful. This man did not countenance scenes any more than his mother. It might _all_ turn out alright on the night, after all. Who knew?

“Lord Ivan.” He received the faintest nod. “Ladies.” All three ghem-witches received a slight, collective bow, and curtsied back deeply. “That was swiftly efficient of you all.” Benin turned back to Ivan. “As you have now received your domestic marching orders, Lord Ivan, it falls to me to fill in some political background that would appear to have escaped your notice. Please, Ladies, would you sit?”

The girls complied with alacrity, Jennea and Lactai to his left and Samura to his right. Some very distant part of Ivan’s brain noted this as interesting.

“The rehabilitation of ghem-officers disgraced after their defeat at the Hegen Hub, Lord Ivan, is an even more sensitive matter than you realise. At the time my Imperial Master was _not_ pleased. At all. So His displeasure was wide, and in places perhaps too heavy, as He knows. _Every_ ghem present here has more than one clansman, and so clanfamily, who suffers from His disregard. But how should we then proceed? It was a tricky issue before the Alliance, and _since_ then it has been explosive, as you and I alone here may appreciate, Lord Ivan, considering the role there of, ah, let me see, your cousin’s most distinctive _alter ego_. And father.”

 _Miles_. The name throbbed dully in Ivan’s brain, like a headache you couldn’t locate. But Benin meant Naismith, the doubly insane, full-bore, pseudo-Betan freak of nature, and Ivan knew he _hadn’t_ considered what the little Admiral’s and Uncle Aral’s roles in the crushing ghem defeat at the Hegen Hub (not to mention some of Miles’s other contrivances and outright scams), might in conjunction with their present first-name terms with Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja mean to the ghem who had survived the slaughter only to reap impoverishing disgrace. _Damn._ Benin was observing him closely.

“Just so. And before you come to think too harshly of these clever and sensible ladies, Lord Ivan, I should tell you that I am, as it happens, Samura’s most junior great-uncle, which your unfortunate guard knew—and I shall have some words for you about that later, Samura—while you know already that _Admiral_ Arvin, who has become such a _confrère_ of your Uncle Aral in writing the Joint Fleet’s Code of Conduct, including the articles concerning the rights of married personnel, is Jennea’s most senior uncle-direct. Lactai is here mostly on her own recognisance, but represents more hopes than her own, by an order of magnitude.” He paused, interrogatively. “Do you grasp now into what snares you are fallen?”

Ivan did, dimly but fully. Such fragments of his pride as he had left nevertheless rose up. “And should I not, General Benin?” He could feel the tension in all three girls. _Serves them right._

Benin pursed his lips. “Then a surprisingly wide variety of people will be significantly unhappy. I have been authorised to mention a lifetime posting as second-in-command of Kyril Island. Or was it second-in-command of the laundry there, under a Lieutenant Vormoncrief, following a spectacular court-martial and multiple demotion?” _Gregor! Miles! Boulanger! The unspeakable, honourless rat!_ “And before you jump to yet more conclusions, Lord Ivan, though I fear from your look I may already be too late, Mr Boulanger was meticulously careful to observe the terms of the peculiar oath you imposed on him, much to the admiration of our Imperial Masters. The real author of your present woes, other than yourself, is the Vorkosigan you _did_ forget to add to your interesting list, though I am not sure I blame you. His file is growing faster than almost anyone’s, just now.”

 _What? Wha— Oh, never mind. It’s happened._ And rather to his surprise Ivan felt that odd calm return to him. A poise, even, and somewhere his most secret heart began to rejoice. “I see, General. Or probably not. But in any case I shall rise to the occasion.” He slid arms around Samura and Jennea, who leaned in slightly against him. “As I shall doubtless have to in future, often enough.”

Benin gazed at him with mild surprise. _Yes!_ It might be Cetagandans 23, Ivan 1, but the opposition were no longer keeping a clean sheet. As he quirked an eyebrow the ghem-General’s eyes lost focus for a second, then brightened as he subvocalised what looked like ‘Yes, my Lady’. He gestured to the four of them.

“Standing would be wise.”

Ivan found himself pulled upright, cloak swirling, as Jennea and Samura snapped to their feet, Lactai rising in equally taut unison. Over Benin’s shoulder he saw with fresh horror a pink lady-bubble bang through the garden-doors and accelerate up the lawn towards them. _Oh … never mind. Cetagandans 10,023_ , _Ivan 1. And likely to stay that way._ The bubble came to a halt that should have scored the grass, and winked out. Haut Pel looked up at them all, her face showing a combination of indignation and (he gave fervent thanks) amusement. At his side the girls had all gone rigid.

“Jennea, dear, and Lactai. Congratulations to you both. And to you, Lady dh’Cahearn—you’ve been doing some rather clever things, in which I detect Dag’s gentle hand, though I shall have some words later for you and Eleta about presuming on Crèche Licensors in quite that fashion. I trust none of you have any objection to my serving as Licensor myself?”

A very tight-faced Samura shook her head quickly and all three women curtsied deeply, two of them elbowing Ivan to no avail. Pel’s gaze moved to him and he shivered.

“Ivan. I really ought to get up and slap you, if only on your mother’s behalf, but you’re going to need both cheeks for the cermonial sigils. Shame on you! A scurvy trick.” He flushed, and knew it for the truth. “And I do _not_ care to have one of my protégés so attempt to embarrass another. Have you apologised to Jennea yet?”

“Yes.”

“And Lactai?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do it some more.”

“Now?”

To his considerable relief Pel laughed. “Satisfying as that would be, no. Time is short. But do not forget, Ivan. _You owe them._ ” The stress was unmistakeable, and Ivan winced as the jab went home. Was that damn desk bugged after all? “Now, General Benin having brought you up to speed, I trust, on the ghem-politics you’ve stirred up, it falls to me to do as much for the genetics. So sit down again, all of you, and listen.”

Ivan found himself back on the bench as swiftly as he had left it, and propelled in the same way. His cloak swirled sadly.

“One of the many things that Gregor and Miles grasp, Ivan, and you don’t seem to, despite your personal knowledge of the consequences, is that Barrayaran and especially Vor genomes are still stuffed with more compromised chromosomes than is even remotely acceptable. Crèche knows it’s obvious, despite your remarkable strength and coherence as a people, and the Vor’s compelling survival as a class. Or caste.” She frowned. “The biological insults to your Firsters from all that absurd red vegetation and some of the biting insects were bad enough, but then you had your Time of Isolation and lost all geneering capacity for centuries. In the Vorkosigan’s District there was also, of course, the more recent radiological insult from ghem atomics. And setting aside mutagen and radiation damage, imperfections like birthmarks, cleft palates, and clubbed feet, which even among baseline human populations haven’t been seen anywhere but frontier worlds since replicators became available, are still endemic on Barrayar. Gregor and Laisa of course want our help to clean the whole mess up, and we’re willing, but even with _our_ genetic resources and personnel it’s going to take a long time. Thanks to Cordelia, mainly, replicator technology has been making inroads for thirty years, and a lot of the necessary work can be done by anyone with proper genetic training. But not all, particularly where the complex behavioural mutations are involved, which usually means in the more inbred high Vor. And the politics is becoming a real bore, because of what’s happened with the more conservative Counts and their higher feudatories.”

At Ivan’s blank look Pel snorted.

“Don’t you even read your own embassy bulletins? I do. So does Fletchir.” Ivan felt the girls beside him stiffen as they heard their emperor’s bare name. “Oh alright. In a nutshell, the high Vor who have always most strongly resisted galactic modernity and resented anything proposed by your Progressives have somehow decided _en masse_ that while they still distrust the Nexus at large, as reprehensible outlanders, they trust _us_ , and _only_ us, to ‘mess with their genes’ in the way even _they_ realise they need, the poor, dim dears. It’s quite lunatic, of course, but Nikki explained it very clearly by saying that they trust us _because_ we were enemies. So—mad, but well and good. That’s more than half the battle, and leaves only logistics ; but they are fearsome logistics, and the problem has become worse since Count Vorhalas, who is actually quite sensible so far as I can tell, became too ill to keep any discipline in their ranks. Count Vormoncrief has neither the mind nor character to help. So how do we sort out who gets proper treatment now and who has to wait, without giving Gregor a running problem in the Council of Counts that’ll stall _everything_ else?”

Ivan stared at Pel, appalled at and riveted by such crisp knowledge and analysis— _she’s the Consort of Eta Ceta, not Barrayar!_ —but still puzzled. He knew he should have been paying closer attention to the bulletins. _And to those vague hints Mother is always dropping._ But what on Eta Ceta had it all to do with him?

Pel sighed. “General Benin?”

Ivan switched his stare, tuning out distractions.

“Lord Ivan, what has been the biggest matrimonial problem of your Vor generation?”

That was a no-brainer. “Too many men. Not enough women.”

“Just so. And remembering our polygamous habits, as you really must from now on, what gender ratios have you observed among the ghem? Half the mark drops, I see” Benin sighed in turn. “It is, seemingly, a great stroke of mutual good fortune for the Alliance that our surplusses and lacks are so very complementary. How splendid for us all. But how many ghem-Vor marriages have there actually been, to date?”

Ivan thought hard. Lots of Vor men had been speculating about whether they might, he knew, and had wanted very predictable details that he had never had the slightest problem flatly refusing to divulge, but he couldn’t bring to mind any formal announcement. “I’m not sure.”

“None. And why do you suppose that might be? Or, come to that, why an estimated 30 million Imperial marks have been wagered in Vorbarr Sultana alone on whom and when _you_ will wed? Do any of _those_ marks now drop? You might ask yourself what you think we ghem, who do know our own most carefully cultivated genetics, make of what we can see of the Barrayaran genomes.” Benin paused, suddenly smiling faintly. “But I think any further instruction you need must come from another source, and probably at another time, though we may be about to enjoy a prelude.” _What?_ “You might also care to speculate for a second, Lord Ivan, on _your_ Imperial Master’s probable response to the list you unwisely left with Mr Boulanger. _My_ Imperial Master, fortunately, did not wholly share it, and in any case ghem-General Naru is extremely dead long ago ; nor do any of his line-direct still dwell on Eta Ceta. Hello, Miles, everyone. Did you have a good trip?”

Ivan froze and let his tunnel-vision of Benin widen again, then _really_ wished he hadn’t. _Gregor and the Cetagandans, 1,000,023, Ivan 1._ _Oh … hell. On wheels. With knobs on. Squared. I’m toast and beans._ Standing in a semi-circle behind Pel’s chair were not only Miles (in house uniform) and Ekaterin, wearing a pair of those plain-glasses that had inexplicably become the season’s rage in Vorbarr Sultana and a stunning blue dress by Estelle, but also a ridiculously grown-up looking Nikki (house uniform). And his mother (Estelle). And Simon (dress red-and-blues with full medals). Amid Ivan’s resigned terror pieces at last came together in his head. _Nikki! How_ did _I forget him? And_ how _did he do it?_ His legs were molten jelly but Jennea and Samura still had him up on them fast enough to give him whiplash, and managed to hold him up even as they and Lactai all dropped deep curtseys. Ekaterin smiled warmly at them all, eyes gleaming, and even his mother and Simon seemed more interested in examining the girls than glaring at him, though in his mother’s case it was a close run thing. Nikki alone looked at him gravely before offering a tiny apologetic nod. Ivan stared, but Miles was taking charge as if this were his own Barrayaran backyard. _And you’re surprised? Ivan, you idiot._

“We did, thank you, Dag. The direct wormholes are a great convenience.” Miles’s gaze swung to Ivan like a graser-beam, and he smiled, evenly, terrifyingly, at his feckless cousin. “So there you are, Ivan.” He paused. “Nice cloak.” Ivan winced. “Lady Arvin and Lady Benello I know, but not this other lady. And all are new to most of us. Are you perhaps going to make introductions before some of us become related? I realise it wasn’t in your original plan, but I believe some tactical flexibility might be called for.”

 _Tactical flexibility? Some of us?_ A glimmer of hope sparked in Ivan’s breast, then flared with resolution. He had, after all, inherited in full measure, and under Miles’s long and devoted tuition honed to perfection, the Vorpatril capacity to make the best of _faits accomplis_. And despite translocating effortlessly between planets and imperia Miles was apparently not _quite_ up to speed.

“Of course, Miles. Forgive my surprise.” Order was critical here. “Jennea, Lactai, Samura, my mother, Lady Alys Vorpatril ; and my stepfather, Simon Illyan.” He made another improbable decision. “Ma, Da, my fiancées, Lady Jennea Arvin, Lady Lactai Benello, and Lady Samura dh’Cahearn.”

Using one eye to watch with infinite satisfaction the blank crogglement that momently flashed on both Miles’s and Ekaterin’s faces (though not, he noted clinically, mooting vengeance, Nikki’s), he had the even greater satisfaction of seeing with the other his mother and Simon brough up short by his ‘Ma’ and unqualified ‘Da’. _Yes! The Nexus 1,000,023, Ivan 2._ His _Ma_ looked as if she might for once say something untoward, but Simon— _bless him!_ —subtly propelled her forward and hands were shaken amid polite murmurs. It was critical not to let her get another word in edgeways or it would be full-on in a flash.

“I’m so glad you could both make it.” He swung, positively Milesishly, letting the cloak do its good work. “And my cousins, Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan, his wife Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan, and her son Nikolai.” He smiled a little promise at the boy, who shrugged with fractional unconcern. “Almost universally known as Nikki. Cousins, my fiancées.”

Miles looked daggers but it was Nikki who murmured “Briefly”, and he saw Miles and Ekaterin both struggle to contain laughter. His heart eased, but there was something about Miles’s look, as there so often was, that left him _very_ wary, and more than usually willing to admit to himself just how much his short cousin intimidated him.

“Ladies.” Curtsies were acknowledged with grave nods and hands were shaken, in Ekaterin’s and Nikki’s cases with some real warmth beneath their evident mirth, and his heart eased again. _This will be alright. If harrowing. And I deserve that._ His calm grew, and he saw Miles’s gaze on him become calculating.

“Mmmm. Dag, I believe I owe you a kitten of your choice from Shuang-Mei’s and ImpSec’s litter, if Pel ever lets go of them.” He smiled at Pel, who _grinned_ back at him, then looked directly at Ivan with eyes gone that flat, gunmetal grey, not, Ivan realised after a moment, with the threat he had once or twice seen them convey but with more neutral assessment. “Ivan, I’m sorry we drove you to a cunning plan, but you _were_ being an idiot. Or rather playing one as well as you have ever done. And time was running out with Vorhalas’s life. He died last night, by the way, so as it happens your timing is inspired.”

Ivan felt a strange twist of sorrow for the infinitely upright old man, at last laid low, and knew Miles shared it.

“I’m very sorry to learn that. He was true Vor.”

Miles smiled and nodded sharply. “Yes, he was. He will be missed.”

“Is Gregor going to allow his granddaughter to inherit?” Ivan did read _some_ of the bulletins, and his mother had kept him up to date anyway.

“That’s with the gods. And the Council. So tonight may matter for more reasons that you are supposing even now. Which brings me to a little business. Gregor, you know, is actually Not Amused at all, nor Da, about the way you handled Boulanger. I _most_ strongly advise you both to offer very fulsome apologies to him, and to them, and to accompany his with a serious gift. Nikki has a notion which will also explain much to you, if you think about it. It involves a _Boo!_ tournament.” His voice went a shade cooler. “Gregor was also distressed, as am I, by your absence for René’s and Tatya’s visit next week, but there’s no helping that now.” Ivan winced. “And given the ill-veiled threats I saw floating in your eyes I think I had better add that Nikki has stood between _Uncle Ivan_ and harm’s way a dozen times today. As have Ekaterin, Ma, and Simon. _You_ _owe them_ _all_ , Ivan.”

Two elbows poked him simultaneously, and he broke his shock to nod crisply. “So noted, Miles. And my preliminary thanks, Ekaterin, Nikki. Da. But you said business, Miles?” Nikki winked at him and Ekaterin looked as if she’d like to but instead rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Miles blinked. _Ivan 3._ So did his mother and Simon. _Ivan 5._ Margins were narrowing. __

“Thirty years in a day. What was I doing wrong?” Ivan gave this the silent treatment it deserved, but Ekaterin didn’t.

“Nothing, love. It just all worked at once. And remember vertigo at apogee.”

Miles grinned. “Alright, love. And alright, Ivan. You get your cadet badge, at last.” _What?_ Miles fished in one of his uniform pockets, then looked up at Ivan dubiously. “You’re going to hate this but it has to be now, so it has to be me, and I don’t see much choice except standing on that bench.” He paused briefly, inspecting it. “And I can’t be bothered. Please kneel, Colonel Lord Vorpatril.”

 _What?_ But Jennea’s and Samura’s hands were pressing down, and rather than risk his uniform trousers on the turf he went to one knee with as much grace as he could manage. The cloak helped. As he found his balance Miles stepped forward, reached out, and deftly flipped the cloak back on each side, simultaneously popping and removing his best dress Colonel’s tabs from each shoulder. _What?_ Had Gregor really cashiered him already? But Miles then equally deftly fastened new tabs in place, leaving the cloak to hang down his back.

“In my Imperial Master’s Voice”—his finger rose, then pointed—“you’re now a general.” _Yeehawhat?_ Dazed, Ivan saw Miles smile, really quite warmly, for him, and before he could move felt a hand return to his left shoulder, keeping him in place ; though whose it was exactly he wasn’t altogether sure, as his vision was a trifle blurred. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Congratulations, Ivan, and also in my Imperial Master’s Voice, welcome to the world of grown-ups.” Then to his frozen yet still heaving crogglement Miles leant forward and kissed him softly on the forehead. “We’ve been waiting. Up you get.”

Miles stood back, there was a little chorus of well-harmonised hums of surprised satisfaction from the girls, and an array of ironic but nevertheless relieved and delighted smiles from Ekaterin, Nikki, his Ma, and Simon. He let Jennea and this time Lactai haul him upright. The straight weight of the cloak felt wrong but he knew this was not its moment, and Miles’s voice was brisk.

“One more slight indignity and we’re done, Ivan. Boulanger said when I quizzed him properly late this afternoon that you admitted children might eventually be on your agenda with Lady dh’Cahearn. Have you revisited that thought yet? I somehow imagined you might not have done. Pel?”

“Yes, indeed. Ivan, _tempus fugit_ , as both Fletchir and I have told you several times. You should expect to be a father of … hmm, triplets certainly isn’t right … trins, maybe, quite early next year, soon after your Winterfair. Plainly one son and one daughter are required ; we can argue about the third, and the assignment of genders to genome-crosses, ladies, if you make your cases fast. Otherwise it’ll be FMF in alphabetical order, which is what Fletchir wants for reasons of his own.” _What? Why? When???_ But all the girls were curtsying again, and Jennea was speaking in a flash.

“It is our honour, my Lady, to gift the Celestial Lord his desire.”

Pel nodded with an amused glint in her eyes. “So it is. I have trained you well. Good. Incidentally, we shan’t be waiting on the second and third sets of crosses either, so start thinking about them too.” _Whaaaa—_ “Now, Miles, is that everything?”

“I believe so, Pel. Dag? Then shall we go in?”

“Momently, Miles.” The blonde head with those ageless blue eyes swung around. “Alys, do you want the curule chair for a moment?”

Even Miles froze, though Ekaterin had to suppress a smile, not entirely successfully. Nikki’s mouth also looked suspiciously rigid. Simon’s eyes were dancing. His own soul shrivelled, then flamed up again. Generals could do pretty much everything, and he was besides going to be a trend-setter by joint imperial decree. But after a second his Ma shook her head.

“Not the curule chair, Pel dear, but a moment.” She turned decisively to him. “Ivan dear, I am so sorry, and so angry, and so proud that I don’t really know what I want to say, or do. Cordelia has taught me a great deal about iatrogenics and wish-fulfillment and I recognise the truths she tells, but it has not stopped me _feeling_ how _very_ exasperating you have been.” Her hand sought Simon’s. “But I also know that if he were here tonight Padma would be just as proud and happy, and far more amused than I am.” Her intent gaze shifted. “Jennea, Lactai, Samura, I am Alys, and where your desires do not cross mine, or our Imperial Masters, I will help you all in every way I can. As will Pel and Cordelia.”

The girls curtsied, looking almost as gratefully shocked as he felt warmed himself— _Ma is a brick, after all_ —but for once his lazy intuition-demon was on the job and shouting advice.

“Jennea, please greet my mother and stepfather in the ghem low-mode to ranking clan.”

Jennea looked startled but complied, stepping forward to take his Ma’s unresisting hands, stoop to kiss both, and then lightly embrace her mother-in-law-to-be. Then she stepped to Simon. At his eye-prompts Lactai and Samura followed suit. Both Ekaterin and, more pointedly, Dag Benin pursed their lips in approval. _Ivan 7._

“Thank you, Ma, Da. I’m sorry, and angry, and proud too, Ma. It hasn’t been easy for either of us. But it will be easier. And I know Simon will not mind that I am thinking tonight of my bio-Da as well as of him.” He saw Dag Benin’s eyes flicker out of focus for a second. “General Benin, should we be moving?”

Benin’s eyebrows elevated fractionally, Miles’s eyebrows rather more. _Ivan 9._ This was beginning to be fun.

“We should, General Lord Vorpatril.” There was more irony in that bland voice than he had ever heard anyone except emperors manage.

“May I ask who is arriving?”

Benin paused, eyebrows again flickering. _Ivan 10._ “That is actually a rather sensible question. The answer, my Lord, is haut Gars. _And his family._ ”

He felt the girls’ startlement, and saw all Barrayaran eyes as well as Pel’s register interest, so this was a new development even on them. _Better and better. Ivan 11._ In an inspired moment he switched back to Cetagandan, in the ghem-mode of warrior-hero to haut authority. “Indeed? I am humbled and appreciative. Shall we go, then?” And swirling his cloak back about him, with his brides-to-be in flanking array, he led the way toward the house and let the rest of them fall in behind. _Ivan 1011. Yes!_

 

* * * * *

 

His lead-position did not last for very long, and even the cloak could not save him from feeling both Miles’s and his Ma’s gazes boring into his spine like Sergyaran worms on maple mead. But as soon as he had passed through the verandah into the morning-room behind, taking in his stride the gaggles of waiting servants and red-uniformed Imperial Guards, the girls peeled off at something close to a run, vanishing in one direction into a cloud of maids, while Dag Benin steered him firmly in the other, gesturing to a captain to escort the Barrayaran party in his stead. In a room beyond there was a solitary chair waiting before a small silver mirror, and a thin ghem in the Imperial Array with a case of face-paints and brushes. Ivan’s cloak was removed— _damn_ —and he found himself seated while a small towel was laid around his neck, presumably to protect his uniform. Closing the door behind them Benin nodded to the ghem, who braced.

“Charint.”

“Sir. What do you require?”

“The three clan sigils, maximal stylised form, in the first to third positions.” Beneath his zebra-stripes Charint acquired a startled look. “Order by age. In the fourth”—he made a ritual gesture, touching his lips—“I command in my Celestial Master’s own Breath and Voice the screaming bird.”

 _What?_ There was open shock on Charint’s face but after one incredulous glance at Benin the man uttered a crisp acknowledgement and set promptly to work. Studying what he could see of his own face in the mirror Ivan thought he was bearing up remarkably well, and general’s tabs looked _very_ good on him, he had to admit. Their glinting, bullioned edges distracted him pleasantly from the odd sensations caused by the brushes ; at least he’d remembered to depilate a second time just before setting out. _How long ago_ was _that?_ It seemed like days ; but now Charint was working remarkably fast, though the upper-right design seemed to exercise him intently, and after no more than ten minutes Ivan was inspecting the four sigils that decorated (and more or less covered) both cheeks. Privately he thought all the girls’ clan-designs were pretty hideous, if not quite as bad as General Kariam’s green-and-orange horror, but in these stylised, shield-shaped miniatures they weren’t too awful, though nothing could prevent them clashing rather violently with one another and both elements of his red-and-blues. And he doubted any ghem would be objecting, for the fourth design was indeed the scarlet screaming-bird sigil of the Star Crèche, which though sometimes discreetly borne in jewellery by ghem-lords with haut trophy-wives was not often displayed, and most certainly not worn facially. One of the parts of his brain that Ivan usually tried hard not to listen to reminded him of Benin’s exasperated question about what the ghem made of the Barrayaran genomes, then of Jennea’s and Lactai’s casual certainty about the need to ‘edit’ his own, whatever that really meant. _Oh. I’m_ guaranteed _toast._ Watching him, Benin suddenly nodded.

“At last, Lord Ivan. How you suppress your brain is a mystery to me. As is why, though seeing your esteemed mother at work in Vorbarr Sultana provides one sort of answer, I suppose. Doubtless we will have time in future to discuss others.” Once Ivan would have shuddered at the thought ; now he felt quite interested and appreciative. “But come, time is short and haut Gars, as you know, does not care to be kept waiting.” Suddenly Benin— _Dag_ —smiled more warmly. “Though even he can hardly think you have done so today, despite your last two years of avoiding marital tag.”

Ivan’s brain went on working despite himself while Charint took away the towel, bracing again, and as he stood he also remembered what Miles had so pointedly said in Gregor’s Voice about grown-ups. _So …_

“Before we go, General Benin … Dag, would I be right to think this is haut Gars’s first _public_ outing?” Benin nodded, warily. “And did he go to the _private_ ghem-ceremony last month?”

An Imperial Array rippled. “He did, Ivan. Do _you_ understand what ceremony it was?”

“Unless Samura was misinformed, yes.”

“ _She_ would not be. Nor Jennea. Lactai might—she had no clan involved.”

“The recovered dead.” Including some _very_ wizened bodies from caves high in the Dendarii snowfields where they had been stuffed, and a small bag of ghem-scalps contributed by Miles.

“Yes. _All_ of them, at last.”

“And the effect of his presence?”

“Electric. But most are holding their breaths to see what comes next.”

“And therefore not talking.”

Benin smiled. “Just so. But after tonight …”

And Ivan saw much, very suddenly. “And the … Hubbers?”

“Will be given hopes.”

“That will … juduciously materialise?”

“Very judiciously, in sufficient cases.”

“Thank you. I will … try to be wise.”

Benin stared. _Don’t strain yourself, Ivan_ hung unspoken, but then the dapper ghem glanced at his chrono and promptly began steering Ivan back the way thay had come, then right, into the large, open hall of the house where visitors were first received. It was _jammed_ with face-painted ghem-men and tight-eyed women, the girls’ many siblings among them, including the incorrigible Veda Benello, and Ivan saw _everyone_ , pretty much in unison, turn with opening mouths at the sound of his and Benin’s heels on the patterned wood of the flooring and then, seeing him, go white in ways even face-paint and festive rouge could not hide. With a renewed sinking feeling he also recognised among the crowd Generals Coram and Kariam, and a bewildered-looking Lord Yenaro. In a clear central area five more ghem and a haut were also staring with open shock : Lord and Lady Arvin, Lord and Lady Benello, Lord Cahearn and Lady d’Cahearn. _Full house. I should have guessed. Damn that list._ Even the Imperial Guards flanking the outer door seemed to be staring at him. To one side stood Miles, Ekaterin, Nikki, Alys, and Simon. Butterflies returned in force to Ivan’s stomach but the inner calm was still in his heart, and his brain kept working ; just. He stepped forward and swept a bow, Vor Lord to family heads. _No shame attends me now._ Frozen-faced his six parents-in-law-to-be returned correct bows and curtsies, still staring (even haut Eleta) at his right cheek. With an internal gulp he chose the highest mode of Cetagandan he was confident of inflecting properly, haut Gars having so frequently winced and corrected him during their conversations that he had abruptly provided a sleep-learn tape, now residing in Boulanger’s safe for the use of future ambassadors.

“My Lords, Ladies. Esteemed clan-parents as you will soon be. It is my honour to see you assembled. I trust my cousin Miles has presented you to my mother and stepfather?”

“He has.”

Miles’s voice was deadly dry, his Cetagandan in a _very_ high haut mode Ivan thought was called Celestial Friend to ranking ghem. His brain whirred as best it might. If Miles had been using _that_ for his introductions no wonder everyone was still so stiff. He dropped into the equal mode between senior kin.

“Then all is well. Thank you, Miles.” He turned slightly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t free to make the introductions myself, Ma, but as you see I was having to be still.” He paused, delicately. “Unaccountably, I find myself uncertain of the exact protocol we are now to follow. Dag?”

Benin’s mouth twitched slightly. “Your brides are still preparing, Ivan, and will be for some moments yet. And we await your final physical and frame guests.”

Lords Arvin, Benello, and Cahearn had been exchanging pointed glances, and Cahearn spoke, taking a deep breath and using senior to junior kin.

“So you said before, Dag. But I still don’t understand whom we await. Nor why.”

Benin smiled austerely. “My apologies for being reticent, Lerato, but I assure you all there will be no disappointment. And in fact …” He swung round, drawing himself to attention, a motion copied as if on strings by every ghem in the room. Only the Barrayarans remained at apparent ease and they too stood taller— _even Miles_ —as the Guards swung open the doors and went to still more rigid formal attention, the black frogging on their blood-red jackets quivering. Benin’s voice carved the silence.

“The haut Gars, and family. The haut Pel Navarr, Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta. His Excellency Ivan Boulanger.”

 _Oh … right._

Haut Gars was dressed as finely as always, his overrobes bright with the colours of festival, as were those of haut Riahir at his side. Haut Rian’s bubble, on her son’s other side, swirled with them also ; Pel’s bubble, behind Gars, was in her dreadful signature pink. Beside it, Boulanger, who had never done more than basic miltary service, wore a beautifully cut pale suit in the style of the industrial ghem-lords. From one corner of his eye Ivan saw the faces of his imminent in-laws slacken in shock even as their eyes began to spark with sudden hope. Gars and his flankers came to a halt in front of him, Pel’s bubble pulling up to one side with Boulanger waiting behind. With a hammering heart Ivan met Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja’s gaze, which was neither warm nor appreciative of his unexpected day.

“General Lord Vorpatril. Congratulations of many kinds seem oddly to be in order.” The layered ironies of that beautiful baritone were pure flint—but Ivan had not spent 35 years being Alys’s son without learning something. He reverted to his highest mode, still a very low one, he knew, for this address in public, but the informality of haut Gars was the whole point, dammit.

“Indeed, haut Gars. _Thank you._ ” He tried to convey his sincerity, and saw a flicker in those piercing eyes. “I have found it all very unexpected myself. But I am delighted and most honoured you and your family have been able to attend tonight as the guests, if I may anticipate events a little, of my esteemed clan-father, Lord Cahearn. And it is my special honour to offer _you_ _personally_ my most relieved and humble thanks, for the first but not, I am sure, the last time”—he let his voice ring out a little more—“in my own right as a lord of the Vor and on behalf of all ghem, as they gather me among their clans, for your recent grace to our dead.”

Ghem-breaths hissed. Ivan fervently hoped he had got all that thrice-damned grammar right and they were appreciating the content without distraction. He met Giaja’s arrested gaze. _I tried, your Nibs._

Imperial eyebrows twitched. “Unexpectedness all round, I see.” The address broadened, though Gars’s voice didn’t change. “And you with all are very welcome, ghem-Lord Vorpatril. It was my privilege to attend the unusual ceremony last month, as it is my pleasure to attend this unusual one now.” Breaths hissed again and the gaze swung. “Lerato. How good to see you once more. We had begun to miss you, in the Garden.” After a blank second of shock the explosive relief of the massed ghem was enough to set imperial overrobes fluttering colourfully in the subtle ambient light. The gaze shifted. “Jadangir. Horesto. Ladies.” Lords and Ladies Arvin, Benello, Cahearn and d’Cahearn dropped full bows and curtsies and Gars nodded. “I imagine We shall meet you again soon, Lerato, but all must wait on these happy nuptials.” Flint glinted still in his voice with the strange pronouns until his gaze swung again and his face warmed with what Ivan would swear was genuine pleasure as he dropped from the oddly informal sub-Imperial mode haut Gars was creating as a hobby to a purely personal mode of some kind. “Miles, Ekaterin my dear, Alys, Simon. It is good to see you all again. And Nikolai, who has done a most excellent day’s work today.”

Miles was grinning like a loon, and Ekaterin’s eyes were shining. “Hasn’t he just, Fletchir?” Ivan wasn’t sure if Miles was even aware of the ghem catatonia that set in despite their all being statues already. “I’m tickled as pink as even Pel could ever hope.” _Whaaa—_ As _Fletchir_ laughed Miles turned slightly and bowed to the festive, swirling bubble. “My lady. Are you well?” __

The bubble did not disappear but the haut Rian’s unmistakable alto flowed from it and the massed ghem shivered where they still stood as tense and stiff as badly oiled hair-triggers.

“I am, Miles, thank you. And I do commend in all ways your pedagogy. It has been most instructive to observe.”

Miles nodded, smiling. Beside the bubble haut Riahir’s eyes glinted and Miles turned to him, his voice and in some strange way his modal inflections becoming teasing—a thing that Ivan clearly remembered being told by the diplomatic instructor it was simply not possible to do in the high modes.

“You enjoyed that little strategy course, then, Riahir, as well as today?”

“Oh _yes_. Both very much.” Riahir glanced at … _Nikki?_ … with a dazzling smile, then at his father briefly, before adding “Thank you, Uncle Miles.”

 _Uncle—?_ The collected ghem, goggle-eyes accentuated in the men by their face-paint and in most women by cheekbones, looked as if an earthquake was happening while they all somehow stood still. _Which it is. That was adopted friend to parental guide. What the_ hell _has_ Miles _been doing with the haut Crown Prince?_ But the new Ivan, reflecting in gestalt on what he knew his insane cousin had managed in the last four years— _well, 34 years, really_ —suddenly had a thought about what it must be like to grow up as Fletchir Giaja’s heir and understood exactly why, if not what, had been happening while he had been … distracted by ghem-women. _And too busy sulking._ Honesty with himself seemed a good idea tonight. He stepped fractionally forward and bowed to the bubble, murmuring a ‘My Lady’, before inclining a head confidentially to Riahir. __

“Did he leave you wondering what you’d missed?”

Riahir smiled again, more adult than child already but with a child’s enthusiasm. “Oh yes … Uncle Ivan.” _Yes! Promotions are flying thick tonight._ He could have sworn Gars winced. “You sound as if you’re familiar with the effect.”

“Often.” Ivan smiled in genuine sympathy. “And thank you for coming here tonight, haut Riahir. It is our special honour.” He offered the boy a friendly bow, senior respecting junior, and as he straightened steeled himself and turned toward Boulanger, who was managing to observe these exchanges with popeyed irony. Miles’s advice floated into his mind and he walked forward extending a hand and shaking the hand a surprised Boulanger automatically extended in return.

“Your Excellency. How very good of you to come.”

Then inspiration struck and he used the same greeting he had earlier asked of the girls, stooping to kiss the backs of Boulanger’s rather hairy hands and straightening again to draw the blinking ambassador into a light embrace, which enabled him to whisper in one ear with some hope of actual confidentiality.

“Ivan, I am _so_ sorry. I’m an idiot, and I’ve been beaten for it. _I owe you_. And I’ll pay.”

He made to step back again, but Boulanger kept a light hold on one of his hands. The ambassador’s dark eyes were unfathomable, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks.

“Not at all, General Lord Vorpatril. And for my part, if a … fiction can do you grace, I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.”

 _Wha— Oh never mind. I can ask later._ Turning, he saw Milessuppressing what looked as if it might have been a very odd smile but had no time (and far less than his usual inclination) to glare. He went easily back towards his waiting ghem in-laws in a way that just happened to put him beside Giaja as he spoke in equal mode. __

“So solemn, elders? And rightly yet wrongly so, for I assure you the haut Gars does not stand upon ceremony, and the veiled sun will not burn you. Perhaps you find that a Barrayaran idea, but it is I assure you a _useful_ one.”

The flicker of surprised appreciation in both Miles’s and Gars’s eyes as he looked around was a boon, and the ghem had collectively passed through catatonia and earthquake to some form of hawk-eyed petrification, but half his good work with the metaphors he and Gars had discussed at such length was wasted when Pel’s bubble suddenly winked out and she stood, one of her usual gorgeous pink dresses swirling about her. As Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta she was seen more often here, embubbled and sometimes not, than any other high haut woman, and in the last few years had begun to acquire an additional reputation for wildly surprising outbreaks of idiosyncratic informality—which counted for exactly nothing right now as hawk-eyes distended dangerously and started glazing over afresh.

“True enough, Ivan, and commendably said. But I believe your brides are now ready, and there is one ceremony we all stand upon.” As she spoke a disturbance at the far end of the hall resolved into the girls coming towards him, each fabulous in a swirling dress marked with clan-colours. He missed his cloak but there was no time to mourn for at a snap of Pel’s fingers Ba servitors appeared from somewhere bearing trays with small, sterile-looking boxes. He knew what had to happen and started unbuttoning his jacket, smiling gratefully at Miles who stepped forward to take it as he shrugged it off and rolled up his sleeve. The girls’ dresses, though all fully sleeved in ghem fashion, had forearm openings for exactly this purpose, and the four of them stood in line before Pel as the servitors opened the boxes and handed her the empty hypophials one at a time. His own blood was drawn first, Pel’s hands gentle on his arm and the needle anaesthetically sharp, then briefly held aloft as dazed assent was growled by all ghem present, and the hypophial returned to its case. Each of the girls gave their tithe as the ritual was thrice repeated and he quietly redressed. As silence returned for the fourth time he could hear ragged ghem breathing but the sight of others’ blood seemed to be restoring their own to their cheeks. When Pel was done she turned to face them all, eyes wholly lacking their usual irony, mode ultra-formal.

“Lord Ivan Boris Feodor Vorpatril, son of the late Lord Padma and Lady Alys Vorpatril, here present, of Vorbarr Sultana ; Lady Jennea Melianda Arvin, daughter of Lord and Lady Arvin, here present ; Lady Lactai Ervistu Benello, daughter of Lord and Lady Benello, here present ; Lady Samura Allessandra dehaut-Cahearn, daughter of Lord Cahearn and the haut Eleta, Lady d’Cahearn, here present : in the presence of the Handmaiden, and on my authority as Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta, the Star Crèche sees you all, blesses all your gene-crosses, and holds you and your children in its hands. May you and they all serve the haut and the Vor, your clans, and the future of the Allied Imperia rightly and well, honouring your genome as the Star Crèche does, and will.”

She held out a slim hand bearing a ring with the same sigil he bore on his cheek and he stooped to kiss it. Ivan had been to enough ghem-weddings with one or other of the girls that the basic verbal formula was familiar (if usually spoken on autopilot by one of the scores of junior haut-women deputed to serve the Ghem Marriage Bureau), and he filed away for later thought the calculated variations adding the Vor and substituting the elevated plural of the Alliance for the usual mention of empire. The avid ghem he could see as Lactai and Samura stooped in their turns were certainly doing so with inward looks, as were the Barrayarans. He risked a glance at Gars, also watching the ghem thoughtfully, and receiving one in return held his peace as the Ba servitors left with the cases and Pel returned to her chair, renewing her bubble in all its blaring pinkness. Gars nodded benignly at everyone in a very Gregorish way.

“Congratulations, ghem-Lord Vorpatril, Ladies. And congratulations to you all also, clan-lords and mothers, children of the ghem, so to stand forth in Our great Alliance. It is well done.” There were many fierce looks between his in-laws. “Now, my Cousins will be waiting.” Ghem breaths hissed yet again and Gars waited out the sound. “Is Jadangir or Lerato to lead the way?” He seemed genuinely curious, and Ivan rather thought his senior and junior-but-hosting clan-fathers had not quite worked this out themselves, but Lord Arvin was quick to reply, using a notably deferential mode with (so far as Ivan could tell) some innovative and probably very daring informalities.

“Oh, Lerato must carry host’s privilege, we feel, Sire, though we had not anticipated setting any precedent for other clans.”

“And yet it will be well if you do. Lead on, then, Lerato.”

Clan-father three might be croggled sideways and _really_ wanting a stiff drink but he was no fool, and with his stately wife and triumphant eyes headed for the largest visible doorway, numbers one and two falling in behind with their wives, followed by Ivan himself and the girls, then Gars and family with the Barrayarans trailing them. Perhaps he should have made sure his Ma and Da also preceded him and the girls, but it was too late now. Everyone else could sort themselves out however they saw fit, and serve them all right, not that he supposed they’d had any more choice than he had with Miles, Pel, his mother, and two emperors setting the hounds of Benin on them. He grinned to himself—an awful lot of ghem Saturdays must have been fairly ruthlessly disrupted, and at Barrayaran behest. _No bad thing either. But let’s stay careful._ The doors led, Ivan knew, to the main reception-room, which he and Samura had planned to use anyway, though not with _quite_ so many guests. And there was still _Gregor’s_ response to his list to come, he remembered with an internal wince at the timeit must now be in Vorbarr Sultana.As he passed through the doorway he saw one side of the room now featured an enormous oblong frame, rising to the ceiling along the entire length of the room from perhaps two metres off the floor, with a knot of uniformed techs huddled at one end around the most complex console-controle Ivan had ever seen. _Oh … good._ _At least it’ll all be over with in one go._

Abruptly it struck him that he and the girls had not agreed how they would stand in relation to one another. Though the Vor and ghem rituals were not dissimilar in themselves, vows directly exchanged between spouses standing amid ranked witnesses, the ghem had no equivalent of the Vor wedding-circle, nor its star-points, and in the only double marriage he had seen the groom had stood between his brides. But that wouldn’t work with three women. Ahead of them his massed parents-in-law swivelled to form a line, 321 FMFMFM, which would mark one primary rank of witness, and he walked directly to a position before them that let him face the frame.

“In a square, please, my Ladies. Equal corners, as we mean to go on, and so we can all turn to that frame when we must.”

They complied instantly, and he was rewarded with the first genuinely warm looks Jennea or Lactai had bothered to dispense. Coming to stand beside Lord Arvin, and marking the right-angled witness-rank where his family, Pel, and the Barrayarans (including Boulanger) joined him, Gars also looked approving. He seemed to like the way the Barrayarans fitted in beyond Pel’s bubble as well, with Miles, Nikki, and Ekaterin next to it, his Ma and Da turning the corner with Boulanger, and Dag Benin and Pel beyond them, followed by Generals Coram and Kariam. The girls’ siblings filled the last rank and spilled into a second behind the line of his clan-parents ; and so on around as the massed ghem flowed in. Nikki, to Ivan’s renewed surprise and churning thought, responded to a glance from Gars with a glance of his own at Miles before leaving his spot (into which Ekaterin somehow expanded) and walking round to slide in next to Riahir, between Gars and the empress’s bubble. Despite the difference in their ages the boys shook hands, then embraced with surprising intensity, before turning properly outwards again looking far more pleased with one another than solemn, while the ghem who saw this by-play went straight back to doing their dazed-hawk thing. The layers of Miles’s strategy— _and Fletchir Giaja’s participation in it_ —began ineluctably to unfold in Ivan’s mind, and after a second he knew that whatever he actually felt about being quite so comprehensively dragooned into triple ghem-matrimony his cousin was serving Barrayar and everyone’s children in a way no sane Vor would ever do anything to impede. And while he might be a bit of an idiot sometimes, as he seemed to be able to admit to himself without embarrassment tonight, he was one of those himself, by the gods ; not some thirteen-toed Vorrutyer or ego-mad Vordarian to do whatever lunacy he fancied and damn everyone else. Something else tugged at his brain, but the noise of the entering ghem was too much, even though Veda Benello was being kept silent by concerted glares from her parents and eldest brother.

As the room at last filled and the din of boot- and shoe-heels on wood eased away Ivan saw Dag glance around, then mutter something under his breath and glance at Gars before muttering again. He urgently signalled to the girls, and as they turned in heady unison toward the frame, triggering a massed rotation from ghem with their backs to it, Ivan braced himself, wondering with genuine curiosity how many from his list Gregor— _and Miles and Nikki!_ —had been able to round up at such short notice. And how many haut Gars might have cared to add. The answer was not long to wait, and as the frame abruptly blazed light the size of the comsonsole controlling it was easily understood. _Fuuull house. Again. Oh well._

At one end, in thin individual stripes, were seven embubbled Planetary Consorts and haut-goverors with assorted haut and ghem dignitaries narrowly crammed around them. At the other, similarly banded, a bewildered-looking Jack Chandler ; Admirals Heras Arvin and Vlad Vorlightly, co-commanders of the Joint Fleet, with portions of their staffs ; and Uncle Aral and Aunt Cordelia, surrounded by more Vorkosigan Armsmen than he ever remembered seeing together in one place. Gregor— _in house uniform, yesyesyes!_ —and Laisa were in the centre of the great middle image, which showed the mosaic room at the Residence. Between them stood a lad whom Ivan recognised after a second as Jo Boulanger, and wished he could turn to see his boss’s eyes ; by Jo’s feet sat ImpSec, tail neatly curled, and an expression of alert feline interest on his face. _Gah!_ The room was, Ivan recalled, where Kou and Drou had married—and _they_ were also there, to one side of Gregor and Laisa, with all their children. Delia and Duv were accompanied by nursemaids holding their babies, as were Olivia and Dono, grinning fit to burst beneath his handsome spade-beard and with an absurd number of his own Armsmen, including a blank-faced Szabo and the other stunner-victims from that memorable night. Martya and Enrique (hopping from foot to foot as if he might give birth at any moment to an epithalamion in some unimaginable stanza-form or other) had no children yet, though Ivan didn’t suppose it would be long before they made an announcement ; while a very saturnine-looking Mark and Kareen, presently accompanied by all other extant Vorkosigan Armsmen, were still waiting to crack the lids of the two replicators they had recently filled with progeny. Ivan almost winced when he saw in the ranks around and beside this mass Falco, white hair even wilder than usual, with at least half the living Vorpatrils and quite possibly some of the dead, as well as yet more Armsmen. He did pause to give René and Tatya Vorbretten a bow and a look of rueful apology, which he saw Gregor note unsmilingly, but there was no time and his gaze swept on, over knots of House and ImpSec uniforms, then army and navy ones including what looked like at least half the General Staff, including Admiral Vorlynkin, and a solid block of Lords Auditor with their families, including the Vorthyses. Helen had on what he instantly recognised from Miles’s heartfelt descriptions as her horrible historical look, and he was distantly stunned to realise it made him proud. Completing the circle he saw the Lord Guardian of the Speaker’s Circle, his deputies, and a group of men it took him a second to recognise as the Lord Keeper of Vorhartung Castle with _his_ deputies, including that ass Vorbalakleets. _Oh well. It_ was _my list._ __

Saying something to Uncle Aral was a priority, but there was only one place he could start, and he had realised from Gregor’s and Laisa’s bemused looks as they took in the three girls arrayed diamondwise before him that a blend of shock-tactics and humility might again work. And if it didn’t he would at least have tried his best to give everyone on Barrayar what they all wanted of him and could go down with guns firing. He began by sweeping a deep bow to Gregor and Laisa, mourning his cloak anew but seeing the girls drop with him, and the Barrayarans, and the ghem. _Yes!_ Only Gars stood unmoving, eyeing him speculatively.

“Sire. Countess. What a wonderful surprise. May I present to you, and to all who honour us with their attendance, my fiancées and their parents?”

Gregor nodded rather stiffly, and Ivan knew Miles had been right that he was really Not Amused At All. But policy and need as well as simple courtesy dictated that as Ivan rattled off all nine names with their proper titles both Gregor and Laisa extend a genuine warmth of greeting, and as he completed the list, not inappropriately with Lady d’Cahearn, he seized the tail of that warmth and spoke to Gregor directly in the same Cetagandan mode he’d used to Gars.

“Sire. Cousin. _Count and Countess Vorbarra._ On behalf of myself, my brides, my esteemed clan-fathers and clan-mothers, and all ghem here tonight, it is my true pleasure to be the first to be able to thank you, as both Vor and ghem lord, for the grace you do us all through your presence.”

He thought both Gregor and Laisa blinked, but Count and Countess Vorbarra didn’t waste a second in making elegant and altogether imperial gestures of gracious acceptance and pleasure. Gregor’s eyes glinted.

“It is Our pleasure, Ivan. And mine. I could do no less for my second cousin. Or is it third?”

“It will be both soon enough, Gregor, though at least once removed in either case, as Ma is always telling me. And may I also say how _very_ sorry I am for the trouble to which all our sudden festivity has put you and Uncle Aral and Aunt Cordelia?” He turned to bow to them, seeing the girls turn and dip with him in unison, and as he straightened looked his uncle straight in the eye, desperately trying to communicate what he felt ; what Uncle Aral saw he didn’t know but Aunt Cordelia’s face softened a little and an approving look began to mix with her obvious exasperation. _Vorpatrils!_ Then Uncle Aral suddenly let one eyelid flicker a fraction.

“It is our privilege, Ivan, to join this happy throng and to toast your futures.”

In Aral’s strip of frame liveried servants appeared, bearing trays with tiny stone cups that Ivan hadn’t seen since the last time he’d been idiotic enough to drink maple mead with Miles. And the same thing was happening not only throughout the mosaic of frame images, even the Cetagandan ones, but in the hall around him, where numerous Ba and liveried house-servants bore the trays. The unmistakable aroma of the most disgusting, gut-destroying, guerrilla attack-beverage ever brewed by man entered his nose like light cavalry on the rampage— _oh hell, they must have mulled it_ —and he had to endure the smell for some while as the ludicrous number of people present in one or another way were all served (saving only the Planetary Consorts, and he’d bet Pel had a stone pitcher stashed somewhere in her bubble) and stood holding a _very_ strange mixture of tiny cups and glasses with varying degrees of glee or apprehension. Finally three Ba servitors dressed in an exquisite brown-and-silver finery that reminded him of something ceremonially walked in through the ghem-spiral, their leader bearing a tray, probably diamond from its sparkle, with three thimble-sized and one larger glass. Distressingly larger. And gods only knew what the _glasses_ were made of. From the corner of his eye he saw a similarly magnificent service offered to the Barrayarans, even his Ma taking a glass with a resigned look at the mead but an appreciative nod for the presentation, and then to Gars, who took his own singularly magnificent glass looking meditative. Even Nikki and Riahir received tiny glasses, and took them solemnly. Miles’s eyes were purely gleeful and Ivan shuddered inwardly, knowing this was Miles’s Auditorial sentence for his treatment of Boulanger ; Uncle Aral didn’t even _like_ maple mead. And he really should have followed up on his considerable puzzlement as to how haut Gars had come to know quite so much, and quite so accurately, about the damnable stuff, but there was no help for it now. He took his glass boldly, beginning in the back of his mind an old army mantra for calm, and turned to face Uncle Aral again.

“Uncle? Sir?”

That granite face that he had always known, now looking so oddly younger and easier, considered him for a moment, then grinned warmly, transforming heaviness into pleasure. It was an effect the Nexus had seen during the invasion broadcast, but the ghem present today still shivered where they stood. So did Ivan, though for different reasons.

“Congratulations, Ivan. Ladies, I look forward to meeting you all in person, here at Sergyar House, perhaps sooner than you expect. And as the newly appointed Admiral Lord Auditor of the Joint Fleet, speaking in both my Masters’ Voices”—

He paused to touch his lips in the same way Benin did, and Ivan realised the ghem had shivered their collective way right back into their glazed-hawk thing, while next to Aral Admirals Arvin and Vorlightly were essaying minatory glares at all and sundry, daring exclamation.

—“I am delighted to offer you the congratulations of all Vor, common, and honourable ghem officers and ratings, male and female, serving in the Fleet. And in Their Own Breaths and Voices, those of our Imperial Masters, so strangely elsewhere.” Aral raised his own glass, looking more reminiscent than anything else. “General Lord Vorpatril—Ivan, you inspiration—and you most intrepid and valorous ladies, your surprisingly but most interestingly collective health.”

Aral solenly raised his glass and drained it. So did everyone, and though he wanted only to sit down and think for a long and joyful moment about that _inspiration_ Ivan really had no choice.

 _Garrk. Eeeuuuw. Ouchouchouch._

With watering eyes and a convulsing stomach he lifted his glass high, thought of how many had been distributed in time to resist smashing it at his feet, tossed it neatly to the waiting Ba servitor (who caught it automatically with a delightful if regrettably blurred look of astonishment), and somehow managed a creditable reply to Uncle Aral ; in the middle of which Ivan abruptly realised the effect maple mead had had on the _ghem_. And even the haut Eleta, looking green. Talk about breaking the ice. _Miles! You are … magnificent, actually. That’s brilliant. I always said it was an attack-beverage!_ He could have danced but the moment beckoned and he ignored his burning gut and wildly pumping heart to seize it fast, using a version of Gars’s sub-imperial mode that he was sure he was mangling horribly, but what could you expect from an outlander, after all? And after that draught of maple mead to boot.

“And now, my Masters, my Lords and Ladies, my clan, my friends, you have vows to hear, and we, my beloved, most distinguished and loyal brides, have vows to exchange.” He blinked to let his tears run openly and looked straight at Gregor. “So let’s see what happens.”

The vows went perfectly, and though he hadn’t planned it so, followed their square around in four Cetagandan modes, high to low, and the four Barrayaran languages. _How did that happen? No matter, it was right._ He managed in the immediate aftermath to lock eyes with Gregor again, and to his infinite relief received a smile and a fractional shake of the head, letting him know he was, if not wholly forgiven, safe from Kyril Island at least. After that the party was _memorable_ , as well as setting a new record for simultaneous ghem–Vor, haut–Vor, and ghem–haut frame conversation. _And_ he got his cloak back. Eventually.

 

 **Epilogue**

 

Some hours into the noisy merriment all three girls— _my wives—ha!_ —disappeared to change, and Ivan found himself watching haut Gars while wondering why his head had started to hurt so badly. To his and everyone’s surprise the non-emperor had stayed (with Pel and Riahir) after the non-empress left, and was holding remarkably casual court in one corner. Dag and other guards stood by, but Gars had offered any ghem who dared to approach easy greetings, and seemed to welcome introductions. One of Ivan’s more cynical bits (in as much as the maple mead had left him capable of it) was muttering about the rumours and intense personal loyalties this night would spawn, but he was also feeling a considerable admiration for Gars the man, or haut, whom he knew was _not_ used to doing this kind of thing, at least in this way, and yet was managing it as easily as Gregor would. _They_ have _been talking_.Miles and Ekaterin were with Nikki and Riahir (and more guards), amiably chatting amid a throng of extremely attentive younger ghem. So far as Ivan could tell from snatches he could overhear the topic was _Lord Vortalon!_ and the drawbacks of mixing propaganda with history and sentiment. Managing not to shake his head in sheer disbelief he filed this away for consideration when his head stopped hurting quite so much. His Ma and Simon (who had palpably impressed every ghem they met) were now engrossed with Generals Coram and Kariam and Pel, once more out of her bubble, adding to her wild reputation but keeping all riotousness at bay merely through her presence, perhaps even more surely than haut Gars.

Looking up as a ghem-colonel Ivan didn’t recognise at all left him, beaming beside his fluttering ghem-wife, Gars caught Ivan’s eye with a beady look and spoke to Benin, then turned to look at Miles. _What now?_ Dag’s eyes flickered towards a side-door that led back towards the garden verandah and with mixed resignation and curiosity Ivan let himself drift that way, making pleasant rejoinders to the congratulations that flowed at him. Only once was he seriously impeded, when Lord Cahearn suddenly appeared in front of him, kissed his hands, wrapped him in a bearlike hug, and muttered into his ear as he had earlier muttered into Boulanger’s.

“Ivan, we have _no_ idea how you did it, and I confess we thought you the idiot of your reputation. But that was _brilliant_ , politically and culturally. You have Eleta’s and my _warmest_ thanks. And those of _all_ ghem” He stood back, eyeing his fellow in-laws. “ _Our_ new son will be a great man among the ghem, eh? As he is among our Vor brothers.”

Part of Ivan wanted to crow, rather more to howl with laughter, but the sober, admiring nods he was receiving from all, with their intent weights of curiosity and enormously heightened expectation were enough to cow anyone. Abruptly he understood what Miles and now Ekaterin meant by all that stuff about vertigo at apogee, but also remembered something else and thought it might be time to meet at least one of those expectations.

“I try, Lerato. And there is one thing you might _all_ do for me next week, as I shall necessarily be away. The visit of Count and Countess Vorbretten and their young son.”

There was a little silence. “What of it, Ivan?” Jadangir Arvin’s voice was cautious.

“They are perforce visiting Lord Thaliar, it being his forebear they share. And Jeronteth Thaliar makes it very easy to understand what happened all those years ago because he is vulgar old ghaut, however he believes himself charming.”

He let the hoary ghem-pun hang. Thaliar was the son but not the husband of a haut, and had Ivan said that to his face he’d have been hard pressed not to demand satisfaction, for the ghem still duelled. All three ghem-lords snorted laughter, as did many among the listeners.

“Too true, Ivan. But what would you have us do?”

“Only this, Jadangir. That you collectively, or through a chosen speaker as you will, let Jeronteth know that if he so much as passes a single off-colour remark to René or Tatya I will publicly replace the piss he utters in his mouth.” It was a traditional ghem-boast. “Literally. Or kill him, as he chooses. It would be my choice of weapons, of course, and Jeronteth has not, I believe, quite kept himself in salon shape.” There were more snorts, as he expected. Jeronteth Thaliar was notoriously lazy, which Ivan was not in matters that interested or amused him, and he _had_ kept up his swordplay, improving dramatically on a very solid base while making many friends and useful acquaintances among the hordes of ghem who were deadly serious about their use of long blades. His throbbing headache made issuing a credible threat an easy and welcome relief, and his desire to get through all this to rest as soon as possible lent his voice, he hoped, a convincing flatness. He looked around the intent ghem-faces, seeing Dag watching him with surprised approval, and held the eyes of each of his clan-fathers in turn until he received three formal nods. Then he shrugged fractionally. “We all have much to learn, and _all_ must be flexible, as they are thoughtful. But I will _not_ permit my close friends and peers among the high Vor, whoever their forebears, to be the butts of such as Jeronteth’s leaden merriment and ill manners. And the clearest possible deterrent is a swift example. Besides, are not even distant cousins as warmly as officially welcome, just now?”

Jadangir’s second nod was decisive and accompanied by a genuine bow the others echoed, as did some (though not all) around. A part of Ivan’s brain coldly marked the holdouts for future attention.

“I will speak with him frankly, and ask Heras to do so as uniformedly as possible just afterwards.” Jadangir raised his voice. “For my own clan I hereby command that the greatest friendly respect be paid to the Count and Countess Vorbretten by any who encounter them, and further, that their visit be spoken of only well. On your peril, heed me.”

Horesto and Lerato added their own clan-commands to further murmurs of acknowledgement, and Ivan nodded friendly thanks before easing out of the group as fast and discreetly as he could once conversation resumed. Which was not very discreetly at all, but at least no-one was going to impede him. As he reached the side-door Dag materialised at his elbow and with a visible pat on the back and an audibly murmured _That was well done_ whisked him through it, taking him directly and at speed to the back-verandah where Gars already stood, looking out towards the holm-oak. Ivan could see no guards but didn’t doubt they were somewhere close.

“Sit down, please, Ivan.” Ivan complied, gratefully. “Dag, is Miles on his way?”

“Almost, sire. He is extricating himself and Ekaterin, Nikolai, and the Prince as fast as may be from a near-mob of new _Lord Vortalon!_ fans. I believe we shall have to authorise at least a limited commercial distribution of the vids. Nikolai and the Prince pitched the analysis superbly and Miles stirred as usual.”

Gars laughed. “Well enough. And don’t worry about _Lord Vortalon!_ , Dag. You of all people know the ghem could do with having to analyse that defeat properly. Meantime …” He dropped into one of the lounging-chairs, stretching out his legs, and contemplated Ivan thoughtfully. “Tell me, Ivan, how do you feel, right now?”

The question was very unexpected and not at all easy to answer, but Ivan knew utter honesty was called for.

“Deeply muddled, sire, in a quite new way. Happy, ashamed, proud, delighted, croggled, grateful, and drunk are all in there. Maybe _like very well-buttered toast_ would cover it.”

Gars smiled but didn’t laugh. “It might. And is your headache frontal? In the lobes?”

 _What? Oh …_ “Um, not really. Sort of in the middle. _Very_ throbby.”

“Ah. So Pel _was_ right. Fascinating. She can give you something for it.” He nodded at Dag, who began to murmur.

Ivan’s confusion was again complete, but the door opened to admit Miles, Ekaterin, Nikki, and haut Riahir. Gars smiled at them all without rising, and gestured towards the other chairs. When all were seated he looked at Benin. “You too, Dag, and you can take the Array off. They’re all so shocked already out there we might as well throw in a glimpse of you leaving bare-faced.”

Benin stiffened, and spoke with sudden formality.

“Celestial Lord, before I obey you I believe it my duty to ask if you truly wish that to be so. You have had a … difficult day, and”—he glanced around—“despite present company I will be so impertinent as to add that having _undone_ today so much done in … irritation—”

Gars looked at him admiringly, as did Miles, before cutting him off. “Note that, please, Riahir. And Nikolai. You really are superb, Dag. My feudatory that Gregor most envies, as well he might. But all is well, and I promise you I am over my irritation. This is a Cetagandan back-porch, you realise? So please, the Array.”

Still somewhat stiffly Benin bowed, fully, then sat to produce from his pocket a towel-sachet and deftly wipe his face clean. Gars nodded.

“Thank you, Dag. Now. You’re all here because there is something I wish to say to Ivan and Miles, that Riahir and Dag also need to hear, and that will interest Ekaterin, I fancy, who can talk to Alys and Simon. And Gregor and Laisa, please, as soon as may be. I also consider it a reward of sorts for Nikolai.” He smiled at the boy, who grinned back. “First, however, Ivan managed with the inspiration of maple mead to forestall one practical matter that Gregor was going to address.” He turned to Ivan and let his eyebrows climb. “A Cahearn hunting-lodge on Xi that’s off-net? You would not have left so easily as you arrived, Ivan, and when you’re back from honeymoon after Midsummer Dag is going to have to do some pointed explaining. It’s also plain, Miles, that we need to exchange some basic security and biodata files, so ghem and Vor alike can at least check up on whom they’re dealing with. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Gregor but I doubt he’ll hesitate. Will you talk to Guy Allegre and your Da, please.”

“Of course. First thing tomorrow.”

“Good. In any case, Ivan, if it’s hunting-lodges you want, I happen to have eight. You can skip the one here, but I’m afraid the Cetagandan leg of your honeymoon-tour involves a week at each of the others. There will also be some guards, and not because I think _you’ll_ be trying anything. For the Barrayaran leg Gregor has, somewhat to his surprise, discovered that he also has some hunting-lodges. Three, to be precise—one attached to Sergyar House, one to the Imperial Counsellor’s office in Solstice, and one in the Residence garden. Or possibly the garden of Vorpatril House. You and your brides will be staying a week at each of those too, where you may combine necessary publicity with necessary apologies.”

A small part of Ivan was indignant, a larger part horrified, but his poor, throbbing head was still sufficiently together to tell him firmly that argument was both fruitless and mistaken. And in retrospect, that he had in fact been very lucky, so he merely nodded, carefully.

“I see. Of course. Thank you.”

Gars nodded back, but Miles let an eyebrow climb. _He can put ‘em in orbit for all I care just now._ There was a knock at the door, which opened slightly to let a Ba slip in. Bowing to Gars he crossed to Ivan and offered him a tray bearing a small hypophial.

“My mistress recommends the carotid artery, my Lord. Shall I assist you?”

Ivan’s head hurt enough that he merely nodded again, carefully. “Thank you. Please do.” He tilted his head, felt the hypo pressed to his neck, and the brief tingle of the injection. And praise be, even before the door had closed behind the Ba he felt the throbbing rapidly begin to lessen into what became merely a dull background ache. He sighed relief, and saw Gars watching with interest.

“Hmmm. Another confirmation. So, enough business, but there are two other things. Miles, you are going to have to license nanoforged maple mead here until we can get franchised maple plantations going. Every inter-imperial marriage will demand a dozen pitchers at least, and there are going to be _hundreds_.”

Miles blinked, then smiled. “Of course. I’ll talk to Mark.”

“And Pel says to tell you that considering today as well as the cats she believes she may concede your and Ekaterin’s argument about love and history.” Both Miles and Ekaterin grinned widely at this. “But I have an observation, that I am going to enjoy communicating although it rather alarms me, and you may be marginally less keen on your interesting if tentative victory than you expect.”

Miles looked quizzical. “Uh-oh. That sounds like a dangerous warning. Should we get Helen in to record?”

Ivan held his teeth together firmly, but Gars only smiled.

“I think not, Miles, though you are free to tell her, confidentially. I imagine it might come up next time you are glowering at her about _The_ _Vorkosigan Report._ ”

Miles winced. “Alright, Fletchir, I surrender. What is it?”

“This. Do you know, Ivan, what Pel’s diagnosis of you was, almost as soon as she saw your gene-scan and Miles’s side-by-side, almost thirteen years ago?”

Ivan stared. So did Miles. Ekaterin hid a smile.

“Not a clue, sire. The last thing she said to me along those lines, about a month ago, was that I was the most feckless thing she knew of on eight planets, and reminded her of a Sigman _gardiach_ or something. I didn’t ask.”

No smile. “That was exasperation, I would imagine because you had yet again given Shuang-Mei too much catnip ; while she is nursing, moreover. Pel’s original and now plainly confirmed diagnosis was that the name _Vorpatril_ was irrelevant, because you are genetically a _Vorkosigan_. Which for these purposes means a descendant of Prince Xav’s marriage to his Betan, as you are through your father, and as Aral, Miles, and Mark are through Princess-and-Countess Olivia. Piotr wasn’t and Gregor isn’t, having the dubious gift of Vorrutyer genes instead—though of course all three living Vorkosigans are also in the direct line of Pierre le Sanguinaire through his grandson Piotr ; as Gregor is also, through his great-grandmother, Dorca’s first wife. Which you are not.”

He studied Ivan’s blinking puzzlement, and sighed.

“Never mind. The point is, Ivan, that _you are genetically a Vorkosigan_. And those very dominant genes neither lie nor idle. So our question was where by the Crèche their behavioural expression was going.” He steepled long fingers. “There is, you know, a condition that can arise in any higher life-form and especially the highest, to which we refer in shorthand as a psychogenetic block. It results from very complex gene-conflict on the behavioural side. So we looked for the conflict in your genome, and could _not_ find it. Because it is not there, any more than it is in Aral or his sons.” He glanced at Miles, lips suddenly twitching. “Much as you managed to invent a new form of epilepsy, Miles, Ivan seems to have invented a new and deeply original form of psychogenetic block. At first we were looking at Alys, and I must say I am glad that Cordelia has taught her as much psychology as she has ; the behavioural iatrogenics were fierce, and having had a somewhat strong-minded mother myself that consideration has led me to forgive Ivan much. But most of that came after adolescence, and he had at least started doing whatever it is he did long before. And that, Ivan, astonishingly, was to prevent the full expression of your Vorkosigan behavioural genes. The Crèche has been intent on you ever since, you realise, in some ways even more so than on Aral, Cordelia, Mark, and Miles.”

Ivan was trying to digest this, and his surprise at not feeling surprised by it. _I knew that. I think. Though not about the Crèche. Damn._ Ekaterin’s, Nikki’s, and Riahir’s brows were furrowed with thought, but Miles was nodding.

“Yes, though I don’t have that language. What Ivan was doing, Fletchir, and the gods know I can’t blame him for it, was staying as far away from the Imperial Throne as he could possibly get, which was _never_ far enough for safety until the Prince and Princess were born. Being Vorkosigan was _very_ dangerous.”

“Yes, I came to that conclusion also. But his strategy was instinctive, carried out in mostly sublime ignorance without regard to almost anything that mattered, and based on what is in _our_ experience a flat-out physical impossibility. Will can control flesh utterly, but it cannot forestall genetic expression. Which Ivan has somehow managed, though at considerable cost to himself. Until now.”

Miles suddenly looked very thoughtful. Ivan had no idea how he looked himself.

“You’re saying, Fletchir, that today has persuaded you this … jerry-built psychogenetic block has now failed. Permanently?”

“Almost certainly. And the diagnosis is not really in doubt. If it were the maple mead and general excitement it would be Ivan’s lobes that were hurting. _Sort of in the middle_ and _very throbby_ , however, which was his description of his headache just now, points elsewhere. And Pel’s cocktail would not have worked for any other condition. But you are, for once, quite missing the point.”

“Oh?” Miles looked mildly put out.

“Yes. In the … evolving course of this interesting evening, you see, Ivan has managed for the very first time—uniquely, in fact—to remind me of _you_. Not in your current high competence, I hasten to add, but in sheer, ridiculous, and _extremely_ fortunate, generally beneficial luck, not least in landing despite himself firmly and rather brilliantly on his feet. Though thankfully on a far lesser scale, he has, you realise, rather replicated some of the actions you both undertook here thirteen years ago, but this time playing _your_ part, rather than his own. It’s entirely remarkable, and uncomfortably like watching lightning strike twice in the same place. I’m almost tempted to give him the Order of Merit now just for the symmetry, but neither Pel nor his new clanfathers would ever forgive him. Or me. And Dag and Riahir—and Nikolai, really—are here now because what has begun to worry me is just what the Crèche I’m actually letting loose in the empire.” He shook his head, slowly and rather magnificently while everyone stared. “Riahir had it right, you know, when he named you _both_ as uncles inside a minute. Peas in a pod, really.”

Abruptly he stood, pulling them all up with him in that imperial way. “And it’s time for Riahir to sleep on it. Your poor pilot also awaits. As does mine, and one for Ivan and his brides, who will by now also be waiting impatiently. Shall we go?” __

The long look Ivan and Miles shared before they did as they had been commanded was purely Vor, altogether Barrayaran, sublimely brotherly, and utterly, mutually aghast.


End file.
